


The God Father

by Nonymos



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Natasha, F/M, Fluff, I really don't want any spoilers, Kinda, Many other relationships if you squint, No spoilers in the tags, No tw though, References to Mpreg?, Short, Team Building, The Author Regrets Nothing, Thor: The Dark World - Canon Divergence, Well it's Loki so, a thing happens, and then another thing, but still wtf, but yeah, gore?, idk it just happened, she's such a beautiful badass, such a fucking weird story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-05 02:51:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonymos/pseuds/Nonymos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A strange thing happens after the battle of New York.<br/>Scratch that. A <em>really fucking weird-ass thing</em> happens after the battle of New York. The Avengers were trained for anything but this. Natasha, though, strangely enough, realizes she's quite on board with it.</p><p>But it might be too great of a risk to take.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

 

 

 

 

There had been the velvety darkness of the room, and the softness of the fresh silk sheets.

Natasha's target seemed all the more rough and coarse in contrast as he pushed into her. She lay her head back, stared at the ceiling, and just breathed. Serene. Almost a little bored.

Grunting and sweating over her. He wasn't exactly brutal, but mostly inelegant. She could still hear Coulson in her ear, not fifteen minutes ago, flatly stating that she didn't have to do this. He would have compromised the whole operation for her and she knew it.

But she simply didn't care. She just had to distract him for five minutes. She had mastered her own body long ago and she considered it a weapon; a tool; just like the Widow's Bites on her wrists, or the guns in her holsters. She almost felt a bit of compassion for the man on top of her, rushing to his desperate climax with no care for her own complete frigidity. _Enjoy it while it lasts._

Not two minutes later, a SHIELD team burst into the room and seized the target before he could even make a move. And it was already over; he was ripped off from her body and taken away.

What happened next wasn't her problem anymore. She lay in bed, not even slightly breathless, still glisteningly naked.

None of the agents had dared crossing her gaze when she'd sat up at last.

 

It lasted for a few days until Clint came back from mission and walked right to her as she ate alone in the agents' canteen. She hated the food here, but as always, she'd had worse.

“So I heard you went full James Bond on your mission,” he told her.

A level 4 agent sitting behind her choked on his noodle soup. She glanced up at Clint, who grinned broadly.

“Just wanted to say welcome to the Mile-High Club.”

He raised a hand.

She blinked, then let out a small, silent laugh. “God.” She couldn't help it. She was trying not to smile but, “God, you're such an ass.”

“C'mon, don't leave me hanging.”

She raised her chin with mock disdainful eyes, but then shook her head and high-fived him like the moron he was. He grinned at her all the more and sat down. “That's what I'm talking about. But seriously, though,” he lowered his voice. “I'm all in favor of making out with sexy targets. But _this_ hairy a guy? You got a Mexican kink or something?”

“Could you be any less politically correct?”

“Hey, PC's Coulson's business,” he said, leaning back in his seat. “He's got the initials to match.”

Behind her, the kid was still coughing and retching. She turned to give him a firm slap in the back; he gulped suddenly and hunched in on himself, flushing a delicate shade of pink. When Natasha turned back to Clint, they were sporting matching smiles.

 

*

 

Not a week later, she was cleared for the field. She got assigned to a mission in Russia; once again, she found herself in a short dress and high heels.

But she honestly didn't mind, and that was what Coulson didn't seem to understand. Clint had his bow, and she had his body. Why not use it? Ever since she'd been freed from the Red Room, she'd enjoyed every single one of her sexual encounters, just like she'd enjoyed her fights; not in a sensual way, but because she'd agreed to each. Prostituting yourself for a job, on your own volition; few ways were more explicit when it came to assert your control over your own body.

But she didn't need to do it again that night. Something went wrong; and it wasn't even the mobster holding her mouth open to rip out her tongue.

Coulson sounded as bland and calm as ever in her ear.

_“Barton's been compromised.”_

She didn't even stop to think. “Just give me a minute.”

 

*

 

Loki was unsettling.

Not in the way he thought he was. His brutal, vulgar threats sounded more ridiculous than anything to her ears. He looked wild and feverish; and he fell for her own ploy way too easily. Somehow, she was disappointed. His whole plan seemed botched and weak. _Banner? That's his play?_ She knew that guy was supposed to be the God of Chaos, but she hadn't thought it meant the God of Making A Sad Mess of Things.

Somehow, everything he did felt false and wrong, so much that she wanted to scold him and say, _you can do better._ The situation was more than desperate; but it was also untidy and graceless, which didn't match the alien in his cage, lean and tall and beautiful. And batshit insane. She couldn't help thinking that he'd wasted all that potential. She could tell he lived for slyness and elegance; it showed in his clothes, in his demeanor, in his very smile. Either he'd gone astray, either there was a bigger picture none of them had seen; something which would reduce the death of a few thousand people to a detail in some great painting.

But somehow, she doubted it. He'd just lost control and tried to pretend he didn't.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” she said in contempt, and she left, having already forgotten about him.

She had more important things to deal with.

 

*

 

At first, she thought it was the shwarma.

 

“Nat?” Clint said behind the door. “Want me to hold your hair?”

She gripped the edge of the toilet seat and threw up for the third time.

“I'll take that as a no.”

She waited until she'd finished retching, then straightened up and wiped the bitter saliva off her chin. Staring into her own eyes in the mirror. She still felt weak and nauseous. What was this? Some kind of aftershock? Was it because of the aliens? Of the Hulk chasing her through the Helicarrier? Of her mad race throughout Manhattan? Of Clint's blue eyes?

Of Loki?

 _No,_ she thought defiantly.

She kept staring into the mirror; her shoulders relaxed, and she knew she wasn't lying to herself.

She splashed water on her face, then got out. Clint was waiting for her with a frown.

“You alright?”

“Maybe not,” she admitted, still gasping a little. She wiped her mouth again. “Stay away. Could be a virus.”

“Great. _I saved the world and all I got was this lame swine flu_ type thing, uh?”

She stopped and looked at him. He stared back. She swallowed, stomach still pulsing and twisting.

“Are _you_ alright?” she asked.

He winced. “Nat—don't... don't give me that shit. I'm back, now. And I'll cope with it just like I coped with the rest of my crap.”

“Will you really?”

He stared at her, as earnestly and flatly as she'd stared at herself a minute ago.

“Yes,” he said.

And it was also the same kind of answer she'd given to herself. She nodded and let her own gaze soften.“Fair enough.”

Her stomach convulsed again. “Shit.” She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth. “I'd better go to the infirmary.”

“Go. I'll be in Coulson's office.”

She looked at him again; this time, he glanced away. “I just... I'd rather be the one cleaning his stuff. Before someone else does.”

 

*

 

“Frequent nausea?”

“Yes.”

“Blurred vision?”

“No.”

“Chest pains?”

“...Yes.”

Pen scratching on the paper. She stared at it as though she could have pierced a hole through it.

“I'll need a urine sample,” Bruce said softly.

She nodded at him and got out in the hallway, hurrying up to reach the toilets. She was worried. Why had it taken her so long to realize it might in fact be an alien disease? She'd _straddled_ an alien, for fuck's sake. She'd kept that damn scepter in her hands all that damn time. She'd walked among shredded corpses and splattered remains.

Her body was mildly enhanced; nothing on Cap's scale, but it was still supposed to protect her from most diseases and viruses. Clint was completely human, and he wasn't sick. But then again, he'd stayed on rooftops for most of the battle...

She'd stood so close to him in that hallway.

_Shit._

This was why she'd asked for Banner, despite the blind green fear still throbbing in her chest. Whatever she'd caught, he wouldn't be affected.

She came back into the cabin and Bruce took the small plastic bottle with a tentative smile. She did her best to smile back; it was easier because she could see, plain and clear, how much he blamed himself.

“I'm going to do some tests in the lab,” he said. “You want to wait here?”

“Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”

He waved at his nearly empty cabin with an apologetic wince. “I'm sorry, I—didn't pack many books coming here.”

She smiled, again. She supposed she sort of liked him. He'd saved the world, just like Stark, just like herself. And unlike them, he didn't have to.

He left, and she closed her eyes and tried to calm the beating of her heart.

 

Bruce was only gone for fifteen minutes. He came back to sit before her, then took a deep breath. “Okay, I've got... I've got... news for you.”

“Good or bad?”

He looked mildly baffled and very embarrassed.

She frowned. “Bruce?”

The use of his first name made him shrink a little. He rubbed his cheekbone in an awkward gesture, then said, “Um.”

“Bruce,” she repeated, calmly. “If I'm going to die, you know I'd rather—”

“You're not dying,” he said, eyes wide.

He swallowed.

“You're not—um. You're pregnant.”

 

She blinked at him.

 

He looked almost frightened now.

“What?” was all she could say.

“You're pregnant,” he repeated, blushing a little.

“But—”

She couldn't stop staring at him. She opened her mouth, closed it. “But I can't. I'm sterile. The Red Room made me sterile.”

Bruce didn't even know what the Red Room was; for the first time in Natasha's life, her tongue had slipped. But he only said, “Well, sterility isn't necessarily a fixed thing,” He offered her a tiny, sad smile, “I know mine's always in flux.”

She was strangely, strongly touched by this small compensation for her own secret. He didn't have to tell her that—she already knew, but he didn't have to _tell_ her.

“I'm pregnant,” she repeated.

“You're pregnant,” Bruce confirmed.

“I'm pregnant,” she said again, listening to the sound of those words.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I swear, this plot bunny just _grabbed_ me out of fucking nowhere and bit me and it wouldn't let go. In such cases you have no choice but write it.
> 
> I'll post one chapter a day. Please, let me know what you think.


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stark got his tower rebuilt, christened it the _Avengers Tower,_ and absolutely refused to acknowledge it for a ridiculous amount of time. Natasha and Clint were discharged from the field, as a vacation. She thought that Rogers would go on his road trip; thought that Banner would leave again, thought that Stark would get on with his life; but none of them did, and instead they lingered in the same space, tentatively, as though drawn by a bond they could neither fathom nor ignore.

And she found herself lingering as well.

 

For two long weeks, she said nothing.

 

It was strange, because she had had very few friends for a very long time. And now, she was sitting on the counter in the living room of the common floor, while they all watched an old movie, and she felt like she could trust the four people here.

Steve—he was everything they'd said and better.

Bruce... she decidedly did like him. He didn't have to come back; and he didn't have to stay, either. Yet he'd done both.

Tony—he knew her. And she knew him, better than he thought; and she liked what he knew.

And Clint was, well, Clint.

_Yes._

“Guys,” she said out loud.

She realized, with mild surprise, that her heart was pounding. Only when they all turned to her did she remember she didn't speak so often; not to attract all their attention at once, anyway. She grabbed the edge of the counter, opened her mouth, hesitated for just another second.

“I'm going to have a baby.”

There. The words had left her mouth almost unconsciously.

The TV's sound died out slowly like a dying engine until it was miserably muted. The deafening silence which followed was almost funny.

Bruce had turned a deep crimson red; Clint went to the exact opposite end of the color spectrum; and Steve just looked sort of dumbstruck. As for Tony, he scrambled to sit up and said, “Oh my God, you're a _girl?”_

The tension deflated at once.

 _“Stark,”_ Clint and Steve said in the same exasperated tone while Bruce just mouthed “Tony” under his breath. Then Clint turned back to her. “Nat—what—you— _what?”_

“I wanted to tell you all at once,” she said calmly. Then she hesitated and said, “And maybe ask for your advice.”

Well, now she'd never seen four grown men look so terrified. And she'd seen a lot of terrified grown men.

“Advice,” Steve repeated very uneasily, as though he was considering backing off for the first time of his life.

Tony obviously didn't need to consider. “Aaaand I'm outta here,” he said, jumping to his feet; but Jarvis blocked the door. “You traitor, I am _so_ rebooting you.”

_“Whatever you say, sir. Agent Romanov, would it be appropriate to offer my congratulations?”_

She huffed a laugh at the ceiling. “An educated man at last.”

_“Consider your hand kissed.”_

“But _how_ can you be pregnant?” Clint blurted almost angrily.

“Well, it's quite simple,” Bruce said from his corner, deadpan. “You see, when a man and a woman love each other very much...”

 _“Augh,”_ Clint yelled. “I meant—I... fuck, that's... Shit.”

Natasha was unexpectedly starting to feel like laughing. They were freaking out a lot more than she did. Somehow, they all reacted as though _they_ were the fathers, each in their own way, and it made her bite her lip to contain her mirth.

“Well,” Tony sighed dramatically. “Since my electronic butler showed us the way, I can only follow his lead.”

He turned to Clint and patted his shoulder in earnest. “Congratulations, man.”

“I'm _not_ — _”_ Clint spluttered, before checking himself and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Stark, I swear to God...”

“Look,” Natasha said, still trying not to laugh, “I don't know who the father is.”

It was true; she hadn't known the name of the target. “That's why I'm asking you. For advice.”

“Natasha,” Steve said, almost meekly. “That's... that's really...”

“Unexpected,” she offered.

“Yeah,” he blurted in relief. “And—honoring. Really. But have you... do you know if...?”

Well, that was all the advice she was going to get—the incentive to answer her own question. And maybe that was enough.

She thought of having a child.

This was a strange, foreign thought. It had never been on her life list, especially not after the Red Room. She thought of staying off the field for nine months. And then—what would she do with it? He or she would only be leverage against her. A liability. And a burden, too.

“I think,” she said under her breath.

She looked up.

Suddenly, she smiled.

“I think I want to keep it.”

Tony snapped round at her before anyone else could react. “You have to call him _Steve.”_

“What?” Steve protested.

Clint snorted and Bruce actually laughed out loud, for the first time since she'd met him. She smiled at him, and he smiled back, soft and sincere, and it _did_ get easier every time.

“I want to stay an Avenger,” she said, before conceding, “Maybe not on the ninth month, but...”

“Dude, you're the Black Widow,” Clint pointed out. “They'd trust you on the field even on the ninth month.”

“We'll support you,” Steve said more seriously.

“I'll hire you,” Tony offered.

She was a little dizzy, and warmer than she'd felt in years. A sudden thought struck her.

“Do you want to be the godfather?”

She'd been looking at Bruce; they all turned to him. He stared at her with round eyes.

“I—I'm— _me?”_ he stammered.

“No,” she said softly. “You.”

They looked between each other.

“Me?” Clint hesitated.

“No,” she repeated, smiling. “All of you. And Thor, if he gets back.”

She leaned back and arched her spine a little. “After all, that child was with us on the field, right?”

Steve chuckled and Tony grinned; it was like he couldn't help grinning, hugely and stupidly. Bruce smiled softly with a sort of inner brightness she'd never seen; Clint looked stunned, but in a very good way. They looked between each other again, then all smiled at Natasha.

“God,” Tony concluded, half-laughing. “That kid's gonna be a fucking _rockstar.”_

 

_*_

 

“And—you're _keeping_ it?”

“Yes,” she said calmly.

Fury stared at her for a long time. Eventually, he nodded, because what else could he do?

She grinned at him, with a hint of sharpness.

 

*

 

“Whoa whoa _whoa,_ what the hell are you _doing?”_ Tony said, horrified.

She dodged Cap's jab and retaliated with a sweeping low-kick. “What does it look like?” she said, slightly breathless.

“You can't train! You're pregnant!”

“Come at me—” _dodge_ “—and say it—” _jump_ “—to my face,” she said.

“Tony, it's alright,” Bruce called from a corner. “It's her own body. She's the best judge.”

“But—” Tony squeaked. “Cap! How can you—how can _I_ be more responsible than you? Is the Apocalypse coming and nobody told me?”

“Sorry,” Steve breathed, “can't talk right now—”

Tony was looking at Bruce now, but the doctor was still nonchalantly doing his yoga.

“Guys—” the billionaire said helplessly, looking like he might actually start flailing.

“Aw, you started without me!” Clint exclaimed, appearing behind him and elbowing him out of the way. “Nat, I'm gonna kick your pregnant ass.”

“You and what army?” she grinned as he jumped on the ring.

Bruce took pity on Tony at last, and went to him to explain him quietly in a corner the logistics of exercise and pregnancy. By the end of their match, the billionaire was still hanging around, nervously pacing the room, eyeing them all with a worried eye. Steve and Clint went straight for the showers; Natasha stayed behind, wiping her neck and shoulders with a towel. She looked up and smirked at Tony.

The second he saw her glinting stare, he instantly put on his stubborn face.

“Whatever,” he said. “Pregnant. Like I care.” He took a deep breath. “I'm up against you next time. You got that?”

“You're sweet,” she said fondly.

She threw the towel over her shoulder and walked past him; but before she left the room, she kissed him on the cheek.

 

*

 

It was Steve who asked one night, “So did you... like, pick a name?”

“Nope,” she said, stretching.

It had been four months and she thought she could feel her belly swelling, although there was no visible change yet. Tony was still mostly freaking out, but the serenity of his teammates had restrained his panic into some kind of constant state of shock, which started to morph again into his regular, snarky self after a long time of adaptation. Clint was, in his own words, “gonna help out his pregnant bro.” Bruce was very calm as always—he'd probably helped a lot of women deliver in atrocious conditions; pregnancy wasn't going to scare him. But he still looked deeply, quietly joyful, seeming somehow a little awed, just like Steve. And she guessed Tony and Clint actually did, too, ever so slightly. They had all forgotten they could also _create_ life.

She'd forgotten it, too.

“About the name,”Tony said. “My vote's still for 'Steve'.”

“And if it's a girl?” Bruce inquired from the bottom of the couch.

“'Steve'.”

The actual Steve massaged his temples and Tony flashed a grin at Natasha. She smiled back.

She smiled a lot more lately.

 

*

 

It was so increasingly strange.

At night, she stayed up and brushed her hands along the now marked curve of her belly. Truth be told, she felt like her own decision still hadn't sunk in. Before Manhattan, she wouldn't have hesitated; raising a child was not among her range of skills.

It still wasn't. But she wanted it, now. Frighteningly, with an intensity which kept her awake at night. She wasn't even thinking of how the child would be; she didn't even know whether it was a boy or a girl, and she had no interest in knowing. Whatever happened, that child would be hers. Her flesh and blood.

She felt stronger in her own body, even as it began to truly change. The Red Room had torn her in pieces and sewn her all back to fit other people's ideals. This new disruption, however, was her entire doing. She had chosen to sleep with the target; she had chosen to keep the child. As her body changed, she felt like she was slipping in a new skin, round and heavy; but a skin which didn't have stitch marks at the seams.

She felt like she was carrying herself in the round world of her belly.

 

*

 

“Hey,” Clint said, knocking on her open door. “I got junk food. Want to share?”

She smirked a little, looking up from her book. “So now I get the princess treatment?”

“More like you're too fat to get out of bed.” He walked to her and pushed her a little. “Give me some room, Black Whale.”

They ate in comfortable silence for a little while.

“It's really starting to show, right?” Clint said at last.

She eyed Clint, then the plate she was balancing on the dome of her stomach. “Gee, Hawkeye, ya think?”

“Seriously, though,” he said, lying down on his stomach.

He crossed his arms under his chin. “Aren't you freaking out a little?”

She stared at her round belly. “No,” she said. “It's mostly... I don't know. It feels... good. To know that...”

She drew up her knees a little. “It's my own.”

She hadn't phrased her feelings so clearly until then. She'd never felt like this; so complete; so centered; not since the Red Room. “It's...” She was making a round shape around her round belly, like she was a planet. “You know?” she said, in a very soft voice. “It's me. I'm... wholly me again.”

“Yeah,” he said in a low voice. “I guess it would help.”

She looked at him, then ruffled his hair.

“I'm doing fine,” he mumbled.

“I know.”

He raised a hand, left it hovering for a second, then touched her belly with surprising gentleness. She shivered a little.

She'd kept in good shape, following Bruce's advice to adapt her physical activity as the months passed. She sometimes experienced more than mild discomfort—the morning nausea had lingered for a long time—but she felt probably less swollen and puffy than she should have, less stiff and uncomfortable, with no back pains and not a single extra pound of fat on her. She supposed it was thanks to the serum, and to her ruthless training as well.

She should send Fury a thank-you gift.

“Fuck!” Clint suddenly startled.

She grinned at him; he looked up at her in awe.

“He _kicked_ me! Or—she kicked me! Whatever! It was _strong_ —are fetus supposed to be so strong already?”

“You'll have to go ask Bruce.”

“Yeah,” he said, flopping down on his back. After a while, he added, “Wow.”

There was a long silence.

“Hey,” he said, quietly. “If you... I mean, if you need...”

She straightened up a little to peer at him.

He was flushing.

“I mean... I'm a useless moron,” he stammered, “but if there's no one else to... and if you feel like...”

“Clint,” she said, grinning. “Clint. Are you offering to be the _father?”_

He went completely scarlet and briskly sat up.“No—not—I mean, I don't _want_ —and I know you don't _need_ —this is just... people do that and... if it can help... If I...”

She inched closer from him and framed his face to press their foreheads together. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “God, I'm sorry.”

“Don't be,” she smiled. “Thank you.”

She let her hands slide down to rest on each side of his neck; and she smirked at him, wide and gleeful. “And don't sweat it. I picked the _best_ godfathers.”

 

*

 

 _“AVENGERS ASSEMBLE,”_ Jarvis announced.

“Shit—what—no!” Tony said. “Not now!”

Natasha had entered—was three weeks into—her ninth month; it was completely surreal and kind of freaky to be surrounded by four nearly frantic superhumans who kept staring at her belly as though they were in a remake of _Alien._ Well, she was being unfair; Bruce was still very composed. But the other three... yeah. Kind of hopeless.

“What if something happens while we're gone?”

“I can still use a cell phone,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Even when I'm in tremendous pain. Ask Clint.”

“She's got a point,” he said.

“Besides, I'm not due before another week,” she added calmly.

She was sitting cross-legged on the couch, feeling like a female Buddha. Nine months hadn't been long enough a time to get used to it. She'd thought she'd known her body; she'd used it like a weapon and a tool, like a house to live in. And it was still all three, but it was also something else now, a matrix of burgeoning life, and she couldn't reconcile it with what she was. It forced her to get outside herself.

It was, she understood it now, the precise reason she'd chosen to do this.

“It's a Code Red,” she pointed out. “You'd better hurry.”

“But what if we're not here for our kid's...” Steve began—then abruptly shut up and went very red.

She was speechless for a second. They all froze like deers in the headlights.

But then she realized he was right. She wanted him to be right.

“It's alright,” she said, smiling a little. “It's true. This is your baby.” She put a hand on the full curve. “In a way. The Avengers' baby.”

Steve smiled shyly at her.

“Told you,” Iron Man chimed in. “Steve Jr.”

“Guys,” Bruce interrupted, folding his glasses. “Maybe some other time?”

He'd already stripped down to his pants.

“Mood killer, Banner,” Clint snorted.

Steve swallowed. “Right,” he said. “Okay, let's go—briefing on the way.” He glanced at Natasha. “Keep an eye on the house.”

“Will do,” she grinned. “Have fun.”

 

*

 

_Fun._

 

She was sleeping in the soft darkness of her room when her cell phone rang. She stretched like a cat, then rolled on her side to grab it.

“Hello?”

 _“Widow,”_ said Steve's voice. _“I need you to listen carefully.”_

For the first time in months, all her triggers flared to send her into full battle mode. She straightened up at once. “Listening.”

_“Loki escaped Odin's jails and is wreaking havoc on downtown Manhattan.”_

A cold shiver ran up her spine.

_“We believe he's going for the ARC reactor at the bottom of Stark Tower.”_

Her free hand clenched a little around the sheets; but that was all.

“Got it,” she said, sharp and calm. “What do you need me to do?”

 _“You have to deactivate the reactor and go on full lockdown mode. Tony would do it but he's_ — _”_ He took a sharp intake of breath. _“Jarvis's unreachable.”_

Iron Man down. She swallowed.

 _“We're good,”_ Steve said, strong and calm. _“We'll manage. Just give the order to Jarvis. The command code's Anticlimax.”_

She nodded and wanted to answer but then—a convulsion suddenly tore through her entire self and she bent double. No sound left her open mouth.

 

At first, she thought in panic, _Loki?_

And then, _oh._

 

_Oh._

 

 _“Natasha?”_ Steve's strained voice. _“Lockdown_ — _you have to do it right now. Loki's getting closer.”_

She couldn't tell him.

Another spasm ripped through her; her knuckles whitened around the cell phone. She _couldn't_ tell him. He would panic.

“Yes,” she managed to articulate, in a completely composed voice. “Roger that.”

Another contraction pierced through her spine and shot up her back.

“Jarvis,” she said when it was over, breathing deeply, deeply, “code Anticlimax. Engage full lockdown mode. Shut down the reactor.”

 _“Widow_ — _”_ Cap suddenly yelled in her ear, _“Widow, wait, L_ — _”_

A terrible noise of shattered glass was heard from the kitchen just as Jarvis said calmly, _“Full lockdown mode_ — _engaged.”_

 

The conversation was abruptly cut off as steel panels fell over all windows and exits with loud brutal noises. The lights went off when the reactor powered down with a dying whine.

Natasha's phone could only be used as a source of light now. Blue shadows ran across the wall when she hurriedly picked it up to press it against her chest; and it all went completely dark. Completely still.

 

She waited in the dark with bated breath, eyes wide, balancing herself on a tightrope of trepidation. At first, there was only silence.

 

Then something tinkled in the other room.

Like someone stepping on shattered glass.

 

Before Natasha could even think, agony _tore_ through her again, piercing her stomach like a white-hot blade—and warm waters flowed between her legs to soak the bed sheets.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The hell am I writing? 
> 
> Whatever it is, I hope you're liking it.


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

 

 

 

She got up in the dark without a sound and grabbed one of her guns. Her sweatpants were drenched and hanging low on her hips; she felt like her hips themselves were hanging low on her body, pulling down, heavy and dull with pain.

She took a deep breath. As she checked her gun, another contraction made her arch and she let out a faint hissing sound. 

_Shit._

The silence sounded predatory now, like someone was listening.

She stayed still, uncontrollably shivering as she aimed at the empty doorframe.

 

“I did wonder where you were,” Loki said in an elegant, soft voice, as though she'd been mere inches from him.

In the thick, agonizing stillness, it sounded like he'd shouted the words.

She heard him tread softly across the kitchen, crushing pieces of glass under his feet.

“You wouldn't have stayed behind,” he said. “Not against _me.”_

A smirk crept into his voice. “Are you injured, by any chance?”

She sucked in a sharp breath and clenched her teeth to bear another contraction. Fuck, she felt like her whole lower half was going to fall off. Like someone was stabbing her loins and _twisting_ the knife. Her entire body was screaming at her to pay attention, but she couldn't. She couldn't.

A silver light flickered in the darkness then grew into a pale gloom, casting a long, lanky shadow in the hallway. She blinked fast and licked her lips. The eye. She should aim for the eye.

His steps were soundless on the naked floor. The shadow grew and and grew and _grew._

She cocked her gun; Loki suddenly appeared in the doorframe and a flow of cold grey light washed over them both. She squinted and aimed at his eye, blocking her breath; but she didn't shoot. She didn't shoot.

Because when he saw her, his chiseled smirk broke into shocked features. He stared at her belly, then at her, then down again.

And she suddenly knew what she had to do.

“Help me,” she panted, arms stiff and trembling.

She could tell he was trying to regain his composure, but his features betrayed him again when he heard her. He started saying something then stopped; with an intense effort, his expression regained a little of its smooth coldness.

“Surely, you cannot be—”

“Cut the crap,” she said brutally. “The child's coming _now._ And we're both locked alone on this floor, with no chance of getting out until Stark arrives.”

She was panting fast and gritted her teeth with a groan when another contraction, more violent than the others, made her felt like her whole body was being roadrolled. “So,” she gasped, panting, and suddenly breaking into a mad grin because she was so terrified and so fierce—“Either you kill us both now; either you do something to help.”

He stared at her face, at her belly, at the trickling water darkening her sweatpants. Then at her face again. He'd closed his parted lips and wasn't saying anything.

She let out a feverish, crazy laugh. “Come on,” she said, never lowering her gun, arms trembling more and more violently. “Don't let me down. Not like last time. Such a fucking waste of things you'd made.”

Agony exploded inside her and she couldn't help crying out, but soon restrained her voice into speech again, a halting, hurried speech, “It's very simple,” she breathed, “it's very fucking simple, help me or stab me—it really fucking _hurts,_ you'd do me a favor, you know? Stab it—aim for the prize, I'll bet you'll hit the child on your first try. Skewering him right through me. Would you like that? Would that make you feel good?”

His eyes were still flickering between her belly and face. He raised his chin to look down on her, his features razor-sharp in the dim light, shadows burrowing beneath his cheekbones, light flowing up the arches of his eyebrows. Suddenly, his lips stretched in a thin, cold smirk.

“You are giving birth.”

The smirk widened.

“And you intend to stand all the while?”

She stared at him, panting, sweating with stress and pain.

“Believe me, it's not your most comfortable choice,” he added.

And she fucking smirked back just as insanely because she'd won. Oh she'd won. Oh she had him by the _balls,_ she fucking had him in the palm of her hand, and fuck shit fuck she _screamed_ when pain destroyed her from the inside out, and for a split second she was terrified—so terrified she wanted to roll into a ball and cry—but then the moment passed, the pain passed and Loki stepped inside before slamming the door shut.

She startled; he put his glowing spear against the wall, then discarded his leather coat before rolling up the sleeves of his tunic. “On the bed,” he said.

Natasha stared for a second, still aiming at him; then suddenly lowered her trembling arms and let the gun drop on the floor. She climbed on the bed and quickly gathered pillows to prop them behind her.

“No,” he ordered when she started lying down. “Lie across the width.”

He manhandled her in the right position; she would have struggled against him but then her whole body _pulsed_ again and she had to fight off another scream—so hard she almost snapped a tendon in her neck but managed only to let out a strangled noise.

“Oh, you should scream,” he grinned when he heard her. “Let me hear it.”

He grabbed a few more pillows and tucked them behind her back, before offering with a sparkle in his eye, “It really does help.”

 _“Fuck_ you,” she panted, gritting her teeth.

He leaned over her and grinned. “Perhaps not at the moment.”

Then he grabbed the waist of her sweatpants and unceremoniously tugged them off along with her panties.

She gasped, but the next second her head sank into the pillows as she arched against another contraction. When it passed, she started laughing, uncontrollably, almost hysterically; she was giving birth with no painkillers and only _Loki_ to help, and it was so fiercely _funny,_ and she laughed, gasped, looked down at him and laughed some more. He was still grinning as he slipped his hands under her knees to spread her legs; and once again, a pang of pure white-hot terror burst through her, blasted away by another contraction—and the acute consciousness that she had no other choice. It was only the both of them in that goddamn steel blockhouse and fuck, fuck, Clint, Bruce, Tony, Steve, they didn't even _know._

In this moment—for maybe the first time of those nine months while she'd been too stunned at her body being returned to her to really consider motherhood—she realized, with full force, that she was giving birth to a living child, to _her own child,_ and she could have ripped Loki's throat out with her _teeth_ if it meant saving the life of her daughter or son.

He saw the fear and the wrath in his eyes and said, “You have to trust me.”

He spread her legs wider and she let out an animal scream. She fought him—she couldn't help it; but he was too strong. And still smiling like a mad man.

“You have to trust me.” His fingers tightened around her thighs, dimpling the flesh,and he knelt on the floor between her open legs. She stared at him, panting, shaking, then arched and shouted as another contraction rippled through her. He brushed the inside of her knees, then suddenly slipped his left hand between her thighs.

 _“Ah_ — _”_ she gasped.

“You are very dilated already,” he said, still smiling, as though they were bantering during a fight. “Has it started long ago?”

His fingers were prodding and feeling about, and she clenched her teeth, sweat pearling on her temples, _fuck you, fuck you, fuck you._

“When you pulled—your little stunt,” she articulated.

He stayed inside her for an endless second, then pulled out his hand when she contracted again. He let her hiss out her pain and writhe on the bed.

“I'm going to restrain your legs,” he said when she was done.

“What?” she panted feverishly, still aching from her last contraction. _“What?”_

Loki got up and off the bed, then grabbed his coat which melted between his fingers in coils of black rope. She stared at him in horror, then tried to scramble away when he got closer. “Fucking _maniac!”_

“You don't understand,” he said calmly. “You need something to tug on.”

She wanted to scream but she could only look at him as he tied a rope to her right ankle then around a bedpost, then did the same to her left ankle. She could only watch him, panting, feeling horribly helpless; when he was done, she leaned back against her pillows.

“You're fucking insane,” she said, screwing her eyes shut, “you're fucking—”

She gritted her teeth, let a moan bubble in her throat, louder and louder as she _pushed,_ contracted her thighs and tugged on the ropes to arch against the bed, and fuck, oh fuck, it _did_ help.

“Told you,” he grinned at her as he settled back between her legs.

She cursed in seven languages then ended with “Why do you look like you're fucking _enjoying_ yourself?”

“Why, childbirth is a beautiful thing.”

“God, I'm crazy,” she cried out, pulling on the ropes to sink down on the mattress and push with her hips, “crazier than you!”

She snapped into feverish peals of laughter again, almost crying with mirth; and when she looked back down, he was staring up at her with the same exalted, borderline insane grin, and dilated pupils, like a lover.

“So what now?” she gasped, shifting on the bed.

He grabbed her hips to hold her down. “Don't move. Let your body lead the way.”

“How wide?” she moaned at the ceiling. “How wide am I?”

Loki glanced between her legs. “Wide enough. But...”

Natasha clenched her fists until she felt the skin would broke. “What? What? What?”

“Oh.” He sounded genuinely worried.

_“What?”_

“It's a breech birth.” There was a crease between his eyebrows. He looked up at her. “The child will not come head-first.”

He got up and climbed on the bed, still between her legs; he leaned over her and placed his hands on her round belly. “I am going to move it,” he warned. “To try and turn it from the outside.”

“The _hell_ did you get your midwife license?” she gasped.

His worried, concerned expression suddenly turned back in a smug smirk. “Who knows. After all, I am a thousand years old.”

“If you hurt my child, I _swear,”_ she snarled. “If you hurt—”

“Yes,” he said in a low voice, smirk vanishing again. “I know.”

His hands pressed down, carefully at first. He increased his pressure, moved his hands about and did it again, pressed _hard_ and she felt something inside her give and _move._

“Fuck!” she yelled.

She looked at him—she desperately needed to look at something, someone, even him, and he was so _focused_ —so intensely concentrated on his task, as though visualizing the child he was moving inside her. He moved his hands and pressed down again, as delicately and decidedly as though she was an ancient musical instrument. She clenched her jaw and hissed between her teeth. Where had he seriously learned to _do_ that? How was this whole crazy delirium even real? Maybe he'd killed her and she hadn't noticed. Or maybe he wanted to use the baby. Against her, against the Avengers. Maybe he would—

She arched and twisted and _screamed_ —this time the pain blinded her, fucking bleached her brain for a split second; she came down from it panting, gasping, crying, and he hissed a curse between his teeth before removing his hands. “No, this is too great a risk. You'll just have to push.”

“What do you think I'm fucking _doing?”_ she yelled.

Suddenly, he was over her, even closer, bending over her belly, framing her sweaty face. “Natasha Romanov,” he said, with that delighted smile. _“Push.”_

She stared into his eyes, tugged on the ropes tying her to the bed and _pushed,_ pushed with all her considerable core strength and with all her anger, and she felt her vagina stretch and begin to tear but she pushed more, again, and again, and again, and she realized she'd grabbed both Loki's wrists; he'd let her, still _smiling,_ so wide, so fascinated. She tugged at his unmoving arms and at the ropes, and arched against herself, jerked her head back and and _pushed,_ contracted her whole body and pushed in tune with the tidal waves of pain crashing through her one after another. She felt Loki's forearms cord in her grip, muscles as hard as marble, as though in empathy with her own efforts; and she _pushed_ once more, panting, gasping, and felt her flesh tear some more.

He suddenly broke free from her grasp and slid down on the floor again. When his hands invaded her body, she arched and cried out, sweat or tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Here it is,” he said hurriedly. “Keep going. You must keep going.”

She convulsed and felt a flow of blood escape her from her insides and her torn flesh, drenching his hands and forearms. He slipped further inside and she felt him _turn_ the child, ever so slightly; she screamed but it was almost a battle cry now, and she pushed, clenched around him and pushed, pushed, pushed, and it ripped through her and she heard, “Yes—”

She looked at him, sweating and panting, trembling, “Yes,” he repeated, eyes narrowed in intense focus, “almost there—”

She felt him almost _dragging_ it out of her and then— _then_ —she screamed in agony and she was fluttering and clenching around nothing, suddenly distended and empty.

The bed was drenched in dark blood, and the smell filled her nostrils, made her dizzy, feeble and weak. Panting, trembling, she propped on her elbows—

—but then pain tore through her _again,_ throwing her back down.

 

_No._

 

For a split second she saw red with rage and terror, _YOU_ —but then he said, “Yes—that would be the afterbirth.”

She moaned and nodded, teeth clenched. Oh fuck, yes, the placenta, yes, right, _focus,_ focus, focus...

“You have to expel it,” he said.

“I'm—” she panted. “I'm—”

She _pushed_ and this time, this time, she felt it leave her body, a high tide of blood spreading on the sheets again. When she looked up, the front of Loki's tunics and pants was splattered with it; his arms were still drenched up to the elbows; and he was kneeling on the floor, between her spread legs, panting and holding a tiny, crimson thing.

She caught sight of delicate, perfect fingers clenched in small fists before Loki bent his head down, and the curtain of his dark hair hid it all from view.

“What—” she gasped.

He looked up at her; his hair parted again, and she saw he was brushing his mouth over the fragile thing.

“A blessing,” he breathed, looking so rapt and mad that it could have been a curse.

Then he leaned down again and pressed his lips against the bloodied wasteland between her thighs.

She convulsed in surprise, then moaned when he _pushed_ his face against her and suddenly stuck his tongue _inside_ —licked and sucked and pushed _deeper,_ and she wanted to close her legs but she was still tied to the bed; before she could even panic, though, _something_ bloomed warm and deep inside her and spread up her body like a flood of liquid light.

She arched one last time against her pillows with a stunned moan and stayed there, overwhelmed with the magic spreading inside her and washing through her blood, soothing the awful pain, healing her torn flesh. He pulled out and she felt him kiss her again between her thighs, in reverent worship.

She was panting and gasping at the ceiling.

Then he straightened up, the child small and moving weakly against his chest; he secured his precious charge in one arm and and untied Natasha's ankles with his free hand. As she sought his gaze, still breathless and in shock from what he'd just done, he smirked at her; and his teeth were very white in contrast with the dark blood covering his chin and lips.

He walked around the bed and fell on his knees near her head, as though he was as drained as her. His arms and clothes were still covered in blood, too; he looked like a god, beautiful and unsettling and deadly, a savage god of fertility and death, panting, and grinning with pride.

She met his eyes, saw the victory in his eyes; she pushed on her elbows, grabbed his throat and tugged him down to crash her mouth against his.

He started but then kissed her back just as savagely; she surged against him, claimed the mouth which had claimed her, and she tasted on his tongue her own blood and flesh. And she felt, between their bodies, the tiny weight of her child, born without crying.

 

Pulling back from the kiss in breathlessness, she ordered, “Give him to me.”

“Her,” Loki corrected with a smile.

Her eyes widened. “A girl,” she murmured.

She started to shake as she received the child in her arms. Loki must have severed the cord at some point. She was so tiny and delicate and perfect. Natasha suddenly felt tears welling in her eyes.

“A girl.” She grinned at her, disbelievingly, then back at him, eyes wide. “My _baby.”_

She had nothing left to hide from him, so she tore her tank top with one hand to let out her full breasts. She carefully pressed her tiny newborn daughter against her chest, holding her head for the minuscule lips to find her breast; and when the child started to suck, it was then as though her body melted as a wave of love and exhaustion washed through her, more powerful and more intense than the magic he'd given her.

They stayed there, all three, in the darkened room still lit by Loki's abandoned spear. He was breathless, too; as breathless and bloodied and rattled as though he'd given birth himself.

She looked up at him, but his eyes were fixed on the child with a strange expression—something pained, and longing, and wistful.

“Give her a name,” she blurted.

He glanced up at her. Stared. “What?”

“You delivered her. Give her a name.” She held his gaze, feeling as strong and enthralling as though _she_ was the goddess, and he the supplicant still kneeling at her feet. She could feel her own lips and chin still wet from their bloody kiss.

She declared like her only commandment: “You are her godfather and she his your godchild.”

He huffed a nasty laugh, sounding like himself again for the first time since it had all begun; but she gripped his black hair and tugged _hard_. “No,” she snarled.

He stopped laughing.

“No,” she repeated, showing her teeth and pulling harder, “I won't allow it. After all that—no; you won't make me believe you can disregard her. She is worthy of you, and you are worthy of her, and _you'll_ be her fifth godfather. Not Thor— _you._ Swear it.”

Loki stared into her eyes for a long, painfully intense time. Then his bloodied lips parted; he hesitated for another second. A strange, two-syllable word was pronounced in a very low voice.

Natasha released his hair, staring at him. “Is that her name?”

“That is her name,” he said in a subdued tone. “And I...”

He licked his lips and stilled when he tasted the blood there.

His face split into a small, strangely intimate smile. He glanced down, then up again, pupils blown. “Yes,” he said under his breath. He looked enthralled. “Yes, I swear. She is my godchild.”

They stared at each other for a still, stunned moment.

A wracking noise made them both startle. They looked up, then back at each other. The noise cracked through space once more.

Someone was forcing open the steel panels. Loki glanced at Natasha, then straightened up.

“Once they reboot the reactor, you won't be able to get out of here,” Natasha warned him breathlessly, wrapping her arms to support her baby as she sat up cross-legged with a terrible effort.

“I'll be gone before then,” he said, before adding with a smirk, “Barton might not be tremendously happy to find _me_ here.”

She snorted. “He's not the father.”

Loki stilled and looked at her.

“He is not?”

“No.” She wanted to laugh. She felt like a goddess again. A goddess of life and fertility. She could feel it, still pulsing inside her, between her thighs and in her heart, an incredible ocean of fierce love, like unlimited power flaming inside her. “There is no father.”

She smiled at him, as wide, as beautifully insane as him. “I am the Widow. She's _my_ daughter.”

Loki let out a small laugh. “I expect no less.”

Suddenly, he took her hand and kissed it, leaving the obscene print of his bloodied lips against her skin. Looking up at her, he grinned, sharp and feral once more; his parted lips were still touching her hand, and she could feel his breath when he murmured, “Till next time, God Mother.”

He let go of her and left—he left in his bloodied clothes, left his spear behind and just walked out the door.

Natasha was left staring at the empty doorframe, just like before, as though nothing had happened at all.

 

But her baby—her daughter—was warm and small and soft in her arms. Her child. Her own flesh and blood.

There was a louder creaking noise and daylight suddenly rushed in the hallway, as though chasing Loki's bygone shadow.

 _“NATASHA!”_ She'd never heard so desperate a scream. _“NATASHA!!”_

She wanted to get out of bed; but although she'd been healed, she hadn't gotten her strength back.

“I'm here,” she said, breathless, exhausted, before calling louder, “I'm here!”

They could have broken through the wall to get to her.

Bruce was holding his pants with one hand; a battered and bruised Steve was helping up a more battered and bruised Tony; Clint's right arm was obviously broken but he still had an arrow nocked in his bow; and for once, they all had the same expression.

Absolute speechlessness.

She was naked, shredded clothes hanging off her body, disheveled and bloody.

She beamed at them, took a shaky breath and managed, “It's a girl.”

 

Someone said, “Oh _God.”_

 

And suddenly they were almost falling over her, hugging her, ruffling her hair, laughing, laughing endlessly and she laughed, too, and they all pulled back to look at her child, Clint, _“Fuck,_ Tasha, I can't believe it, fuck, that's, _fuck”_ and Tony, “That's amazing, that's really amazing, it's an actual _kid,_ I mean, just _look at it”_ and Steve, “God, Romanov, I'm so damn proud of you” and, quiet and soft, Bruce, “She's beautiful.”

They looked between each other, laughing, panting, all bloody and aching and incredibly joyful, and she realized that the infinite love of her heart extended to them as well. She _loved_ them, her team, her friends, her warriors. Her godfathers.

“Nat,” Clint breathed eventually.

She looked at him; he was staring at the forsaken scepter. They followed his gaze, then all turned back to her with wide eyes.

“Nat, what the hell _happened?”_

She gave him her Widow's smile. “What, Loki?” she said lightly. “He's gone now.”

“But how—”

“More importantly,” Steve cut off, smiling. “What's her name?”

“Hela,” Natasha said.

 

She though she could still feel her blood tingling. “Her name's Hela.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops I accidentally twice as much chapters as intended. Well, story of my life.
> 
> What did you think? Thank you so much for reading and commenting. ^^


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

 

 

 

“How's the baby doing?”

Natasha smiled at Bruce coming into the room, then lowered her eyes again to Hawkeye resting his head on her thigh. “Well, he's whining in his sleep, but otherwise he seems fine.”

“M'not _whining,”_ Clint whined.

His right arm was in a cast and folded against his chest. He burrowed a bit further into Natasha's thigh; Hela squirmed a little in her mother's arms, and her little foot hit Clint's forehead.

“Ow,” he muttered. “You trained her to fight already?”

Bruce chuckled and trod softly across the room. The rain was beating against the windows, but the living-room was as warm and cozy as can be. Hela was sucking on Natasha's breast with heavy-lidded eyes; three days after childbirth, her skin had lost its blotchy aspect to melt into a golden brown, and her head was downy with black feathery hair; but her eyes, like Natasha's, were going to be clear; although their color was still undefined.

“That's right, _goloubouchka,”_ Natasha cooed, before grinning at Clint. “Give her a few months and she'll outrank you.”

“Well, considering how her birth went down, she's already something like a level 6 agent,” Clint said.

Bruce sat down on a chair and laced his fingers. Natasha knew they knew Loki had delivered her child; there was no other possible outcome from the clues he'd left behind—a bloody but unhurt Natasha, a healthy newborn baby, and an abandoned weapon. Almost like a declaration of intent.

Still. They hadn't talked about it yet.

Bruce was frowning now, wringing his hands; but before he could speak, Tony and Steve entered the room.

“How did the press conference go?” Natasha said, lips curling up into a smile.

“It was horrible,” Tony moaned while Steve said at the same time, “It went pretty well.”

She raised her eyebrows at Bruce who smiled softly and murmured, “It was alright.”

But she guessed at his small wince that it could have gone better. Tony went straight to the bar and made himself a drink before offering one to Steve who shrugged and actually said yes.

“Want one, Barton?”

“M'good,” Clint muttered.

Tony leaned over the couch and poked him in the shoulder.

“One day your anonymity will be blown, Birdbrain, and that day you'll do press duty just like us three.”

“But today's not this day,” Clint answered, lazily shifting a little.

Natasha noticed that Bruce was wringing his hands again and frowning at the floor. She didn't say anything and waited for him to decide himself.

Eventually, he looked up and said, “Um—Natasha. About... about Hela.”

She stared at him calmly. “Yes.”

“You know... you know _Hela_ is Loki's daughter in Norse mythology, right?”

Everyone went very still.

“Yes,” she repeated softly.

There was a silence. Tony and Steve closed in; the billionaire sat on the carpet with his back against the wall, and Steve leaned against it, looking at Natasha and Hela.

“I can't believe he just delivered your baby and walked away,” Clint said.

She took a deep breath. _Okay, seems like we're doing this now._ She couldn't see Clint's face, but she could tell he was staring at the wall. His voice was toneless.

“Dropped everything else he came here to do, just to help you out.”

He was heavy and unmoving on her thigh. There was another long pause.

Natasha looked up at Steve and asked blandly, “How many people did he kill this time?”

Steve stayed silent for a long time; then he scratched the back of his head, and said a number. It wasn't a _lot,_ not compared to last time; but _one_ would have been too much already.

“He's got no moral compass at all,” Clint said. “He just does what he wants.”

Natasha shifted Hela in her arms and took a deep breath.

“He's still her godfather.”

They all gaped at her.

After a split second of stillness, Clint sat up and looked at her with a frown. “Please tell me you just said that to make a pun.”

Natasha let herself breathe deeply again. “No.”

She looked up at them, one by one. “He delivered her, and he saved both our lives. And I thought...”

She paused.

“I saw he wasn't going to forget it. No matter how much Asgardians claim to despise humans. So I made him swear. I'd rather have him on my side—on my child's side.”

She licked her lips, remembering the taste of her own blood. “He's her fifth godfather.”

“You _made_ him swear?” Tony repeated.

Natasha looked up at him. “Well, yes,” she said blandly. “I grabbed him by the hair and ordered him to swear an oath.”

Silence. They were gaping at her a lot lately.

“Can we trust Loki's oaths?” Steve ventured eventually.

She shrugged. “I don't know. It was worth a try.”

“Bastard always has a hidden agenda,” Clint said in that dead voice.

“What agenda would he have with a human baby?” Tony said, raising an eyebrow.

“Maybe none, not this time,” Bruce murmured. “We don't know him enough to tell.”

“Not even Thor knows him enough to tell,” Tony snorted.

Clint rubbed his eyes. “Goddamn mind-fucker just had to go and do this.” He settled back on Natasha's thigh and sighed. “It was simpler when he was just a crazy murdering asshole.”

Natasha looked at her child. Little Hela, so grave and quiet.

She still hadn't cried once ever since her birth.

“Yes,” Natasha said in a low voice. “It was simpler.”

 

*

 

Exactly two weeks after Hela was born, Natasha spent three hours in Fury's office; and the next day, she was cleared to go on the field again.

Once again, she felt like the entirety of SHIELD kept their eyes fixed on her as he walked into the canteen. She kept her head high and sat at her usual place. Funny how no one used it when she wasn't there.

She'd left the child with Clint and Steve for the day, but she didn't think she would be sent on a full-time mission anytime soon. Still—it was nice to be living with four literal supernannies. Made the looks of others easier to bear.

Someone set his tray in front of her. She looked up, expecting anyone.

It was Coulson.

“Hello,” he said, smiling.

She stared at him. The whole canteen had fallen silent.

“I know I'm supposed to be dead,” he said in his amiable tone. “But Fury knows I've always been lax about cover when it comes to you.”

He sat in front of her and she kept staring at him for a good minute. Eventually, she said, “Clint is going to kill you.”

“Yes,” Coulson admitted.

There was nothing on his tray. He picked up a carrot stick from hers and ate it; then he smiled again. She let a long minute pass.

“How did you survive?” she asked.

“I was treated in Tahiti,” he answered flatly. “It's a magical place.”

His features quivered a little.

“I heard your child was given an interesting name,” he added.

Natasha felt a joyless smile curl in the corner of her lips. “You already saw Clint.”

“I called him as soon as I was discharged,” he admitted.

“And you did your Norse mythology homework.”

“Seeing how I tend to get involved with Asgardians, it seemed like a wise thing to do.”

“Did Clint tell you something _else_ about my child?”

“Only that she has five very prominent godfathers.”

She stared into his eyes.

“Well I would have asked you,” she said blandly. “But you weren't there.”

“You're right,” Coulson smiled. “I wasn't, was I?”

“But _he_ was. Luckily for me.”

There was a silence.

 _“Luckily,”_ Coulson repeated, smile unwavering.

He laced his hands and said, “I guess only time will tell.”

A small chill went up Natasha's spine.

The undead agent tapped his empty tray. “I've been meaning to contact Thor and ask him a few questions. But if he's got a cell phone, we don't have his number.”

“I can't undo what I did,” Natasha said brusquely.

She remembered that breathless second, just before she grabbed Loki and kissed him. The taste of her own blood on his lips. “It had to be done.”

“But if you accidentally did more than you intended, it would be a good thing to find out.”

She stared at him again. She thought about myths. About rituals and blood magic and all the things she'd refused to so much as read before a strange thing happened in New Mexico.

“Yes,” she said, slowly. “It would be.”

He took another carrot stick on her plate and smiled at her. "Then that's what we'll focus on. In the meantime,” he got up, “congratulations.”

Then he walked away as calmly as he'd appeared.

 

*

 

“Natasha...”

“It's just a week-long mission,” Natasha said, crouching on the floor to finish packing her bag.

Bruce looked terrified. “Natasha,” he repeated in a very small voice. “It's not a good idea. You should ask... anyone else. Ask Steve again. Or Clint.”

“Steve is in Japan right now and Clint's busy with paperwork.”

Bruce almost looked like he wanted to say both of them could still do it better than him; instead, he murmured something even more ludicrous. Natasha raised an eyebrow at him. “You want me to ask _Tony_ to take care of her? The same Tony who forgot to feed himself yesterday?”

Bruce's next answer was even more inaudible.

“Doctor: it's going to be you. If there's one thing I learned from Kolkata, it's that you're great with kids.”

“Natasha,” Bruce said, looking outright desperate, “Look—I—”

“Bruce,” she said firmly. “Hela is six months old. Whether you're the Hulk or not doesn't change anything to the fact that you could kill her.” She smirked. “And to the fact that I trust you not to.”

She grabbed her bag and turned away. “See you in a week.”

*

 

Going back on the field felt even better than before.

Natasha's body was entirely hers now, and even stronger and sturdier. She ran miles in the snow, climbed what felt like a hundred mountains and watched the sun set after a one-hour long day. The air was cold and sharp in her lungs.

She felt alive. Not because she was alone in the great wilderness; but because she knew people on this Earth waited for her return. Because she knew no matter how much she lost herself in her own instincts of savagery, there was a small child out there who was her flesh and blood; and that child would be soft and warm in her arms when she got back, which meant a part of her would remain soft and warm, whatever she did out there. Hela was her anchor to the human world. She was the reminder that not everything had to go bad and sharp and rough.

Tony, and Bruce, and Clint, and even Steve, hadn't exactly had the best childhoods, she knew. She liked leaving her child behind, because Hela was too great a gift not to be shared with others. This week was Bruce's turn.

Natasha went down the snowy hill; the last glimmer of the sun vanished behind the horizon and suddenly, the endless field of snow was plunged in the shadows. She kept running in short strides, puffing out clouds of steams.

Coulson's eerie and vague predictions hadn't come true. There had been no word from the fifth godfather. And Natasha convinced herself she preferred it this way. She remembered the kiss, she remembered the shivers and the shaky laugh matching hers. But she also remembered the insanity, the haunted blue eyes, and the tongue and lips and mouth pushing into her.

_A blessing._

No, he wasn't coming back. And it was better this way.

 

*

 

“...So, you just wanna grab that wrench. Okay, let's grab that wrench. Now what? Hit that component? That's not going to help at all. In fact, I'm pretty sure it's going to break it.”

“What the hell is going on?” Natasha said in amusement as she walked into the lab.

Tony and Bruce startled and looked up at her; the doctor flushed almost instantly, but Tony just grinned and waved at her. “Your kid's a natural. I swear, she puts Dum-E to shame.”

Hela was sitting on the counter, secured by Bruce's big hands, next to a bundle of wires and sparkling electronics. It didn't look overly safe.

“Is that the core of your next armor?” Natasha said.

“It was.” Tony glanced up at Hela. “You want me to hit it again? Alright.” Hela giggled and clapped her hands when Tony broke the useless core even more irretrievably.

He gave Natasha a pointed look. “Pretty sure I wasn't that destructive at her age.”

“I take it the week went well,” Natasha smirked at Bruce.

He gave her a small, hesitant smile.

“It... Yes. It did.”

He handed her her child; she took her in her arms and rubbed their noses together, whispering at her in Russian. Hela's little hand grabbed her red curls.

“So, did mommy kill a lot of bad guys on her week off?” Tony asked sarcastically.

“That's classified.”

He rolled his eyes.

“I see someone got back all the old reflexes. God, Widow, your daughter's more fun than you. Hey—do you know that she's starting to talk? She said 'Bruce' earlier.”

“Right,” Natasha snorted.

“Okay, she didn't. But—”

“Bwuce,” said Hela.

Bruce looked at her in shock.

Tony flipped his wrench behind him and yelled, “Oh my _God!”_

Natasha smiled at Hela. “Well, baby,” she said, brushing the black hair off her forehead. “I'm glad you didn't start with _Tony.”_

“Is that seriously how you're going to react?” Tony said indignantly. “Your kid said her first word and you're still playing Ice Queen? C'mon, get her to say mommy.”

Natasha stared into Hela's eyes, which had turned a definite green like hers after the first few weeks. “I don't think she's up for it.”

“Bwuce?” Hela repeated.

“Yes, he's right here.” Natasha smiled. “It's very good, baby. Bwuce.”

“I'm,” Bruce said, flushing a deep shade of red. “I'm sure she can say 'mommy' too, you know. If we give it time.”

“Screw time!” Tony declared. “C'mon, kiddo, say 'mommy'. 'Mommy'.”

Hela looked at him with her big green eyes. Then she opened her little mouth and, very intently, said,

“Loki.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ehehe. ^^ Please, tell me what you think? And thank you so much for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

_“A blessing,”_ Loki whispered.

He grinned at her, teeth sharp and white against his bloodied skin. He was holding Hela in arms wet with blood, but her soft brown skin was unsullied. She was looking calmly and pensively at her mother, tearless as always.

Natasha was tied up, but she felt just as quiet. Warmth was pulsing inside her in a slow succession of low and high tides. This time, her arms were roped too, restrained above her head with the same black ropes wrapped around her ankles. Loki kissed the forehead of her child, leaving a bloodied mark on the brown skin.

The reality tore up behind him to reveal a black void splattered with distant, scintillating stars.

 _“A blessing,”_ Hela said in his arms, with the voice of a grown woman.

 

Natasha startled awake, heart hammering in her chest.

Hela was sleeping next to her, tiny and warm in the great bed. Natasha waited for a second until she'd got her breath back, then let herself lean back again and pressed the back of her hand against her forehead.

She and her daughter had slept in the same bed ever since what had happened in Tony's workshop. It had been six months. Natasha knew she should have let it go—knew babies only babbled nonsense at Hela's age—but still, she couldn't let her sleep alone. Every time she tried, nightmares crept into her sleep and woke her up; eventually, she gave up and kept Hela next to her at all times.

Coulson's words, bland and empty in the middle of SHIELD's silent canteen, kept ringing in her ears. Fear stuck inside her heart like a shard of ice.

She never had nightmares when Hela slept next to her; she never had nightmares so vivid and precise, period. But now, she was drenched in sweat, and even her daughter's calm breathing couldn't calm her down.

Quite the contrary. Hela still didn't cry. Hadn't _ever_ cried.

And it drove Natasha insane.

So insane with worry that she sometimes almost wanted to shake her, to hurt her or scare her so she would react in a _normal_ way—at times her own child terrified her; but every time such thoughts crept into her mind, she fought them off with the memory of Bruce and Clint. Bruce knew exactly what happened when parents started to fear and mistrust their own children. Clint was a living reminder that Loki was all about turning others inside out and against their own.

And they both knew only too well that parents should never take out their worries on their children; no matter how strange, how frustrating, or how frightening they were.

No, none of this was Hela's fault. She was a little girl who couldn't even speak yet, and Natasha loved her more than she had ever loved anyone. Whatever Loki's blessing might imply.

Thor still wasn't back, so they had no way of knowing more about it. There were only Coulson's words slowly piercing through Natasha's mind in an endless torment, sharper and sharper with each reminder. _If you accidentally did more than you intended..._

Fear boiled under Natasha's skin and suffocated her for a second. She turned on her side and watched Hela while she slept. This time, she managed to calm down a little. She trailed her hand across her daughter's soft black hair, and closed her eyes.

No, she wouldn't cry, either.

_“Agent Romanov.”_

She glanced up at the ceiling and realized she was breathless again. Fear coiled and twisted in her stomach.

“Jarvis?”

_“Your presence is requested in the living-room.”_

“What time is it?”

_“Four am.”_

She hesitated, then slowly worked her arms under Hela and lifted her as softly as possible; she let her head roll against her shoulder and paused. Her daughter's breathing was still soft and undisturbed.

Carrying her in her arms, Natasha walked out of the room.

There was light in the living-room; but the whole floor was soundless. Hela was warm and heavy in her arms as Natasha got closer. She was about to turn the corner to get into the living-room when she heard Clint call, “Nat?”

She stilled instantly.

She knew that voice; clear and cutting. He never had that voice except when he was drawing his bow.

“Yes,” she answered.

“Hela with you?”

“Yes.”

“Don't show yourself yet.”

Natasha leaned her back against the wall. She heard a small laugh, then someone answered Clint in a cold, honeyed voice.

“Oh, _please.”_

Natasha involuntarily squeezed her child so _hard_ she woke her up. For a moment, she was terrified Hela might start crying; but her bright, grave eyes just gazed into hers in earnest. Then the little hand caressed her cheek, and Natasha let her own eyelids fall shut. She tried to still her breath, but the weight of her daughter in her arms made her tenser than she ought to be.

“What are you doing here?” Steve asked very calmly.

Natasha heard a slight whirr and knew Tony was in the suit. Her sharpened ear caught the low buzz of repulsors ready to fire. She pictured Loki, tall and elegant, probably smiling; but cornered by the three of them. The _four_ of them—Bruce must be here too, of course.

She took a deeper breath. Yes, it wasn't like last time. She wasn't alone with no other choice but let Loki have her.

“Well, isn't it obvious?” Loki's smooth voice answered. “It's past midnight.”

Natasha felt like she'd gotten a blow to the heart. She looked down at Hela, who stared back at her, eyes wide and questioning.

Yes—of course—it was her first _birthday._

But Natasha hadn't thought. Hadn't made the connection.

“I thought my presence would be appropriate,” Loki went on. “Required, even.”

“You were wrong,” Clint said flatly.

Natasha knew the lack of tension in his voice was inversely proportional to the tension in his bowstring. Loki let out a little laugh.

“Are you seriously going to shoot me? Why, I am appalled. You—my fellow godfather.” He hummed a little. “I wonder what that makes of us both? Cousins thrice removed?”

“Loki,” Natasha called out.

 

A very thick, very still silence answered her.

 

She took a deep, shaky breath. “What do you want?”

When he answered her, the sour irony had left his voice. He didn't sound quite sincere, though—only bland. “I merely wish to visit my godchild on her first birthday.”

“But it won't be your first visit,” she almost snarled. “Will it?”

There was another silence, so tense she felt something was about to snap.

Loki only sighed, though. “Can we not see each other for such a conversation?”

Natasha looked into Hela's eyes, then softly pressed their foreheads together. She took another deep, deep breath, then walked round the corner of the hallway and into the living-room.

 

Loki was standing with his back against an open window, raising his hands in a mock gesture of surrender against the various weapons aimed at him. Bruce was sitting in a corner, staring at him with a deceptive quietness; even Natasha would have been fooled, if not for the fact that Bruce didn't so much as glance as her—always kept staring at Loki, spying his every flinch.

It helped her a little; but not much.

Loki's pupils dilated when he saw the child in her arms. “Well, hello,” he said in a low voice as an enthralled smile stretched his lips. “Little Hela.”

“Loki,” Hela said.

It sounded as though everyone had taken a simultaneous sharp breath; Natasha had to struggle against herself not to crush her daughter against her chest.

“This,” she said in the calmest tone of voice she could muster. “How do you explain this?”

Loki smirked at her.

“Is it not usual for a child to know her godfather by name?”

“Not when they haven't seen each other in over a year,” she hissed.

Loki gave them a shit-eating grin and opened his raised hands in an even more exaggerated show of innocence. “I did not visit her; I swear.”

“But you are connected,” Clint said. “How?”

Loki glanced at him. “Not in the way you think, my dear paranoid Hawk.”

“Call me _yours_ again and say goodbye to your left eyeball,” Clint said in such a casual tone he sounded almost bored.

The room went very still.

“You would inflict such a sight on your godchild?” Loki said, lips quivering.

“Try me.”

There was a silence; Loki grinned at him again, then slowly turned back to Natasha. “I am not controlling her,” he assured her. “But surely you remember the circumstances of her birth?”

As he said this, he licked his lips, slowly. She froze as her heart picked up speed; it meant nothing to the others, but—oh, _God._

Something between her legs quivered as she remembered the warmth of her dream. She fought the feeling away in horror. Loki was still grinning.

“Your blood and hers,” he said in a low voice. “We are linked, the three of us. I warned you I was coming tonight. Did you not feel it?”

She remembered her vivid dream and felt once more a wave of nauseating pleasure between her thighs. She felt so sick it must have showed—since Bruce's eyes flashed green and a low growl escaped his throat.

“Now—please,” Loki said, still smiling, but in a tenser tone of voice. “I truly do not wish for anyone to be harmed.”

“Why don't you make that wish come true and walk away?” Steve said sternly.

“I want to see my godchild,” he repeated in a calm but unwavering tone.

Natasha closed her eyes and cursed herself.

Because she'd _asked_ him to get involved. He could have walked away; but she had made him _swear._ Why on earth had she thought this might be a good idea? She had ensured _herself_ that Loki would keep his eyes on her child. It was far too late to hope he would brush it off. But at the moment, as she'd looked into his haunted gaze, she'd thought—she'd _known_ —he was fascinated already, and she had wanted to make sure Hela would always be safe from him. Since he would get interested in her daughter, she had wanted to make sure his interest would not bode any ill. But how had she thought she could trust him for even one second? Clint and Steve and Coulson were right. Loki could simply not be trusted, if only because he was absolutely unpredictable.

As it was, he considered himself linked to the child, and there was no going back, now. There was only moving forward and hoping for the best. And this had _never_ been the Widow's strategy.

But like she'd said herself, it was too late, far too late, to undo any of it.

“Well, you saw her,” Steve was saying. “Now go away before SHIELD comes in.”

“You called SHIELD?” Loki said with what sounded like true offense. “I am not here as your enemy!”

“You think you can just call a fucking _time out?”_ Tony blurted. “From everything you've done in the past year? From the people you've killed? The lives you've ruined?”

Loki was frowning a little now. “Well, yes,” he said. “This has nothing to do with our fights.”

“That's not the way it fucking _works!”_

“Can it not work that way, though?” Loki inquired. “I believe the mother would rather not have me invade her child's dreams anymore.”

“Steve,” Natasha snapped.

She felt like the whole world was weighing down on her shoulders. “It's my fault,” she said, forcing the words out. “I let him in. I asked him to be the godfather.”

“Loki!” repeated Hela, wriggling in her mother's arms.

 _This_ was good, Natasha decided. This was _good._ Whatever he'd made her daughter see in her dreams, Loki had obviously not hurt her. She remembered Hela's untroubled sleep, too deep for a child of her age; and the way she looked at everything for a long time after she woke up, as though shifting from one world to the other. She remembered the endless stars from her own dream, the complete lack of panic, and the pleasure which made her sick now.

“Well what do you suggest?” Clint said, still deceptively calm. “We just let him in? I don't fucking think so.”

“I do,” she said darkly. “But there will be conditions.”

“Oh?” Loki said in amusement.

“And they're non-negotiable.”

She was lucky, she was extremely lucky, because he obviously was in a gaming mood; and it made him shrug and say with a grin, “I am listening.”

Natasha took a deep breath, leaving her teammates a last chance to speak up against the deal she was about to make. But they all stayed silent, even Clint, although he was so entirely entranced in his shot-to-be it was a wonder the arrow was still pinched between his fingers.

“One,” Natasha began. “You stay the _fuck_ away from her dreams or I'll rip your liver out.”

Loki shrugged. “As you wish, but I should think she will miss it. They were not nightmares.”

Natasha ignored him. “Two: if you try to be in the same _building_ as her without at least two of us by her side, the deal's canceled.”

He tilted his head but said nothing, still smiling.

“Three: you're not laying a finger on her. Ever.”

The smirk vanished from his face. “I am not even allowed to hold my own godchild?” he said in an icy voice.

“That's right,” she said sharply.

She waited, but he said nothing, so she went on, “Four: if we ever so much as _suspect_ that you're using her—”

“—the deal is canceled. I know, I know.”

“No,” Natasha said calmly. “We will kill you.”

He just looked at her with an undecipherable gaze.

“Yup,” Tony said.

“Same,” Clint growled.

“Agreed,” Steve nodded.

And from his corner Bruce murmured, “Yes.”

Loki raised his hands again. “Very well.”

But he was smiling his thin smile again and there was a spark in his eye Natasha didn't like at all. It made her feel like she'd missed something. What could it be? How had she fucked up _again?_

“If we all agree, then,” Loki said, “we'll meet again very soon. I'll be sure to abide by the terms of our little deal.”

He smiled at her daughter and said, “Happy birthday, little Hela.”

He took a step back and jumped out the open window; and at the very moment the night swallowed him, Natasha realized her mistake with agonizing clarity. Oh what an idiot. What an idiot.

She should have told him _when_ to come.

But now it was too late.

 

Clint kept aiming at the window for a long minute, then lowered his bow with a sigh. Natasha sat down on the couch. She was staring at the window too, as though she could still see him there.

Bruce exhaled a very deep breath, then got up and walked softly to her; Clint, Tony and Steve did the same, looking all as weary and exhausted as she felt.

“Bwuce,” Hela said decidedly when Bruce sat next to her.

“It's me,” he murmured with a small smile. “Hi, Hela.”

There was a long silence.

“She's going to be tired in the morning,” Clint muttered eventually.

And it was as though there was nothing else of relevance to be said.

 

They stayed in the living-room, huddled around Hela, till the grey light of dawn washed in. Then the four godfathers silently got up again and wordlessly scattered away before the day began. They had been supposed to celebrate their child's birthday; but Natasha knew it probably wasn't going to happen now.

She stayed alone in the dark, still breathing too slowly, too shakily.

 

“Mama?” Hela said.

 

Natasha felt tears welling in her eyes and hugged her child, huffing a small, wet laugh in her hair. “Yes, baby,” she said. “Thank you. I'm your mama.”

Then she got up, settling Hela in her arms. “Come on, _goloubouchka._ I think there's cake for breakfast.”

 

*

 

After her first birthday, Hela's nights progressively returned to normal. She was still a very quiet and patient little girl, but as far as Natasha could tell, Loki had been true to his word and left her dreams alone. She had lost that hypnotized stare when she woke up, and now she tossed and turned in her sleep at times, to the point that Natasha eventually let her sleep in her own bed again—although still in the same room.

But three weeks later, Natasha was sitting on the floor, playing with Hela, when Jarvis announced flatly, _“Sir_ — _Loki Laufeyson is at the door and demands to be let in on behalf of your deal.”_

Natasha felt like the breath had been punched out of her.

She looked around; Bruce and Clint were away, and there were only Steve and Tony with her. The billionaire got up at once and soberly said, “I'll put on the suit.”

He vanished and Steve came to sat on the couch near Natasha's spot. “I'll stay with you.”

She nodded, willing herself to be calmer than last time. This was just another mission, nothing more.

Except the parameters were _far_ from being clear. But she had to pretend they were, or she would go crazy.

The doors of the elevator opened on the slender silhouette she started to hate with a passion she hadn't felt in years. He was wearing his Midgardian suit; he watched them for a rather long time, then nodded at them both. “'At least two of us around'” he quoted lightly. “I respected the rules.”

The bastard was enjoying this way too much.

“May I come in?”

“Yes,” Steve said, looking decided to play this straight.

Loki walked inside just as Tony came back in full armor. The demi-god didn't even deigned him with a look; he discarded his expensive jacket on the back of the couch, then sat on the floor in front of Natasha and looked her in the eyes.

“Hello, God Mother,” he said in a low voice.

She just glared at him.

Hela wiggled in her arms but Natasha held her back. “No, _goloubouchka.”_

“'Little dove',” Loki grinned. “How sweet.”

To have him so _close,_ sitting on the floor with her, was setting off all of Natasha's alarms at once. She felt like her nerves had been wired to a car battery. Loki never looked up at Iron Man and Captain America ready for battle behind her; he was staring at Hela now.

“Hi, little one,” he smiled. “I am sorry; mother will not let us hug.”

He minutely leaned forward. “Do you still remember me?”

“Loki!” Hela said, looking very proud of herself.

He laughed a little. “Yes.”

Then all of a sudden he looked up at Natasha again. “So how is she doing?”

“I—” Natasha blurted, taken aback. “She's...”

She took a deep, silent breath and regained her composure. “She's doing great,” she said lightly. “She knows everyone by name now. And she calls me 'mama'.”

 _“Mama._ Is it Russian, too?”

“Yes. How do Asgardians call their mother?”

Loki stared at her for another second. “'Mother'” he said eventually.

He glanced down at Hela again and the child started babbling away as though telling him a story in a different, not very articulated language. She did this a lot, but usually to the people holding her; and as a result, she kept trying to wriggle out of Natasha's arms to crawl to Loki.

He did not make any attempts to touch her, but listened to her passionately, saying things like, “Indeed,” and “Is that so?” and “Amazing.”

“Do you have any idea what she's saying?” Tony said at last, in a doubtful tone.

“None,” Loki answered, still not looking at him. “The All-Speak does not reach that far.”

“Hey, now that you're acknowledging me,” the billionaire went on dryly. “Your goo monsters from last time completely clogged our water system. We're gonna have to rebuild it entirely. I hope you're proud.”

“Hm?” the demi-god said distractedly. “Just drench the remains in cranberry juice; it will unclog at once.”

There was a hesitant silence. Eventually, Steve said blandly, “Cranberry juice.”

“You're just fucking with us.”

“Language, Stark,” Loki said, finally grinning at him. “There are minors present.” He stared back at Hela again and murmured, “As for the rest, try it or don't; it's up to you.”

Then she started babbling again and he instantly appeared to forget about the rest of them.

In the end, he stayed for half an hour, talking alternatively to Hela and Natasha; but half an eternity would have felt just as long. Eventually, he got up from the floor and tugged on the perfectly ironed sleeves of his shirt.

“Well,” he said. “Thank you for your hearty hospitality.”

There were all giving him death glares, except for Hela who was now sucking on Natasha's thumb.

He picked up his jacket to shrug it on before smirking at Natasha. “I would kiss your hand, God Mother, if not for your knight in shining armor.”

He walked out the door and into the elevator. “Take care of the child." The doors began to close; just before they did, he grinned and added,

"I will be back.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn it, my chapters are reproducing through parthenogenesis. I _think_ this time I can say for sure it won't be more than seven chapters. (Although I've learned not to trust myself too much on that.)
> 
> Thank you for all the awesome comments! I am so glad this weird story pleases you. ^^ More of your thoughts, please?


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Loki did come back.

Clint still wasn't there and Steve had gone on a mission; but Tony and Bruce were by Natasha's side. Tony did not put on his armor this time, but Natasha knew he could get into a suit in a matter of seconds now. She wasn't sure whether Loki knew about this, but for the second time, even though he couldn't help making a show of staying _just_ behind the imposed limits, he did not actually cross them. He always stayed three steps away from Hela, and inexplicably listened to her endless babbling; he discussed with Natasha and even exchanged a few words with Bruce, polite and distant. When Tony poured himself a drink, the demi-god smiled knowingly at him, but said nothing.

That time, he stayed for a whole hour.

 

Tony ran a scan on the entire Tower to check for clones and magic treachery; but as it seemed, all Loki had done was walk in, talk to his godchild, and leave.

Well.

 

Two months later, he came back for the third time—but not where they were expecting him. He was launching an attack on the north of Norway.

Thanks to a rapid evacuation, there were no casualties this time; but most of the zone was razed to the ground by the end of the day. The Avengers were exhausted and aching; Loki had retreated in a very bad shape, and Natasha's old feeling—the feeling that things had spiraled out of his control—made itself known once more.

Loki did not try to contact them and they did not discuss him on the journey home. Fury did not know about their agreement. He did not even know about Loki's implication in Hela's birth.

That night, Natasha took her daughter with her again. It felt like she started breathing too deeply at times, and went too still, her features too grave and too calm. Every time it happened, Natasha brushed her cheek and started murmuring at her in Russian. Her daughter shifted in her sleep, and the dream passed.

But maybe there were no dreams, of course.

The awful truth was that she couldn't really know.

 

*

 

Loki came back another month later and stayed on the doorstep without saying anything.

 

His visit was a dismay to them all, but they hadn't really thought he would never come back. This time, they were all here, staring at him in silence. Clint was sitting on the counter; Natasha was on the couch next to Bruce, Tony was leaning against the wall, and Steve on the edge of a chair.

Loki looked unsure. Almost embarrassed.

Natasha was certain it was just for show. But it was a very good show and she hated him for it.

“So are you gonna come in?” she said eventually.

Loki's features shifted minutely, from blankness to blankness; he nodded and walked inside. But the atmosphere was so cold and oppressive that even he apparently couldn't bear it, and he wasn't long to go away after only a few words to Hela.

“I don't get it,” Clint said after the doors had closed behind him.

Natasha remembered it had been the first time he'd seen Loki with Hela.

“Get what?” Tony asked.

“It,” Clint said in a sharp tone. “Everything about it.”

 

*

 

There were no more attacks, and during the next months, the Avengers learned to grow accustomed to Loki's visits, as one would get accustomed to natural disasters, with the same fatalistic philosophy which manifested itself differently in each of them. Tony was mostly bantering with him, each of them balancing themselves on the razor-sharp edge of aggressiveness. Clint remained on mission mode, sullen and quiet, as eerie as when he'd still been under Loki's control. Bruce talked with the demi-god like he was a distant acquaintance, receiving similarly bland, polite answers; and Steve was trying to be as honest and clear as possible. The visits remained painfully awkward and tense every time. But Hela seemed to like him.

Loki kept showing in civilian clothes, in what was probably meant to appear like an effort on his part to be as nonthreatening as possible. The Avengers strove to reach the exact opposite, always keeping their weapons at hand, clad in their suits or armors. Loki always ignored it with smooth elegance. His visits did not get exactly longer, but he started talking more to Steve, making Clint the only one with whom he didn't indulge in regular conversations.

In between his visits, they all tried to get on with their lives.

But relaxing completely was always difficult. Loki had plunged his roots deep inside their routine, and they were not sure how to get out of the hole they'd dug for themselves. They kept fighting him and tried to capture him or even kill him on the field; and he showed no mercy either. Yet he kept coming back and they kept accepting him, on the side, as though their battles for just for show. As though the truth lay with their bright-eyed little girl.

As for her, Natasha had decided the only way to win against Loki was not to play. So she worried about Hela alone; as long as her daughter looked happy and undisturbed, Natasha had no real reason to put an end to it all. The rest of them could deal.

At least until Thor showed up again and they could ask him what might be really going on.

 

*

 

On one of those tense, awkward visits, Loki was talking to Tony and smirking wider with each bristling step of their banter when Steve's gasp of surprise interrupted them.

“Oh my God! Look!”

Everyone turned to Hela; Natasha was holding the tiny hands up, and her daughter was taking unsure steps on the carpet.

The godfathers instantly gathered around her and crouched with stunned smiles, except for Clint who stayed on the counter, curling up the corner of his lips in discreet but sincere fondness. For the first time in months, all tension and wariness was forgotten. They stared at her in breathlessness.

After a few steps, Hela had to stop holding her mother's hands, but she didn't give up and kept walking courageously towards Loki at the opposite end of the circle. They looked at her go, frozen by the eventuality that she might trip and fall. The demi-god very slowly leaned forward, beckoning her closer with a smile; he opened his hands—

 

—and Clint's arrow hit him in the shoulder with full force.

Loki was thrown backwards with a choked hiss of pain; Hela fell on her behind nearly at the same time with a slightly surprised look.

Clint's sullen voice sounded very loud in the stunned silence.

“No touching.”

When Loki straightened up, pale with pain, strands of black hair falling across his face, his eyes were so full of fire that Tony and Steve got up at once.

Loki stared at them, panting; his gaze swiped over Bruce, then settled on Natasha who had taken Hela back in her arms and stared at him with steeled eyes.

“Right,” he mumbled.

The warmth of the moment had completely vanished. He grabbed the shaft of the arrow and briefly clenched his teeth as he ripped it out; he was wearing a dark green shirt which darkened even more around the small neat wound.

“Apologies,” he said grimly.

He let the arrow fall down and got up. They were still staring at him. He gave them the most joyless, dreadful smirk Natasha had ever seen. “Well—I will take my leave then.”

As no one answered, he walked away and slammed the door on his way out. There was a long silence after he was gone.

Eventually, they turned to Clint, who quietly lowered his bow.

“You're letting him get too close,” he said evenly.

He jumped down from the counter then walked away as well.

 

*

 

It wasn't before a week that Natasha got down to the basement range.

“Hey, that's cool,” she heard as the elevator doors opened. “You have pretty good aim.”

“Pwetty goo,” Hela repeated.

To see Clint with the tiny child in his lap, alone in the immense range, throwing rubber darts onto a cardboard target was very sweet—and a little strange. Natasha quietly walked inside. He didn't acknowledge her; there was no need.

“Mama,” Hela cried. “Look! Cwint awows!”

“Clint arrows?” Natasha smiled, sitting next to them and ruffling her hair. “Will you show me how it's done?”

“Look,” Hela said again, and clumsily but decidedly walked to the target to pick up the small darts. “Awows.”

Clint and Natasha looked at her go, encouraging her every time she turned to look at them.

“You are right,” Natasha said in a low voice.

They hadn't exactly talked since Loki's last visit, so he knew what she was referring to.

“But like I said, I let him in. It's my job to minimize the damage now. I know what we have is fucked up, but it worked so far.”

“You're not minimizing anything,” he said. “You're getting used to him.”

Hela was coming back to them; she tripped and fell into Clint's calloused hands. He lifted her so she would stand on his thighs, then said, “And you're getting _her_ used to him.”

“What am I supposed to do?” she hissed. “I will not have him in my daughter's head. I will _not.”_

Clint stayed silent. Natasha cursed herself.

She wanted to tell him about the childbirth. About the blessing. About the look in Loki's eyes, of fascinated, wistful longing.

“I don't know how to keep him away,” she said.

“You can't trust him,” Clint answered.

“I know—”

“No,” he cut off. “You don't get it—you _can't_ trust him. You can never, ever trust him.”

He made Hela bounce a little on his thighs. “I have been by his side; he only cares about one thing, and it's himself. I told you he's got no moral compass.”

He rubbed Hela's back. “The second he gets tired of her, she's just another mortal in his way. So even if he seems sincere now, keep in mind it's just on the surface. Keep in mind it's going to burst in our faces one day and we have to be prepared.”

“I know,” she repeated.

But still she wished she could have told someone about the childbirth. She wished she could have explained the strange impression that although Loki was hiding something, it wasn't necessarily what they thought. She wished someone else had been there. To _see_ him. And maybe they would have understood something she'd missed.

But she shouldn't be thinking like this. Coulson, Clint, Tony—and the rest of them; she should judge by them. By what had happened to them for letting Loki get just a little too close.

“You're right,” she repeated. “But he got too close now.”

“Well,” Clint said.

He finally looked at her. “Don't let him get any closer.”

 

*

 

“Hey, Bruce?”

Bruce looked up from his work and smiled. “What is it?”

In Natasha's arms, Hela sneezed minutely, then sniffed.

“I'm not sure,” Natasha said, anxiety tightening her throat. “She's sneezing a lot. And I think she's running a little hot.”

 

*

 

“It's okay, you know,” Bruce reassured her. “I know she's got a bit of fever, but it's not uncommon for a child of her age. Actually, I'm surprised she's never been this sick before.”

Natasha nodded with a blank stare.

“Look,” Bruce said. “You watched her all night. As your doctor: go in the kitchen and have some coffee. Or tea. Or eggnog, for all I care. As long as it's warm. And then you can come back. Alright?”

She did her best to smile. “Alright.”

She got up then walked to the kitchen. She didn't like the gnawing terror creeping under her skin despite Bruce's reassurances. She wasn't used to irrational fear; she used to be scared of the Hulk; of falling back down into the Red Room; of drying up inside until she was but a deserted wasteland. Hela's birth had cured her from all these fears. And now she was afraid of her daughter's cold. Wasn't it pathetic?

When she walked into the kitchen, though, she remembered she still had rational reasons to be afraid.

Loki was standing by the door, in full armor, dusty and battered with a small cut on his forehead.

 

He looked breathless; he had no weapon but she was under the strange impression he'd left his spear in the elevator.

“What are you doing here?” she asked in a dead voice, passing in front of him.

“I have a right to be here,” he snapped.

He did sound very breathless, but he quickly gathered himself.

“We have a deal, and I will see this deal honored.”

“Whatever.” She opened the fridge. “You can't see her right now.”

“How is she?” he asked.

Completely forgetting Bruce's advice, she simply took a can of orange juice and leaned against the counter. “You're embarrassing yourself,” she said, flat and cold.

He stared at her.

“Seriously—look at you,” she went on. “You expect me to believe you came here straight from the battlefield because you were worried about my kid?”

“I never said such a thing,” he bristled.

 _“Then what the fuck are you doing here?”_ she suddenly shouted.

He just gaped at her.

“What's the big idea?” she went on, trembling with a rage which fed in a bone-deep terror she had tried to repress ever she'd found herself locked in with him. “She's a human kid; and you already killed thousands and thousands of human beings; among them, _kids_ —so why not mine? What's your goddamn game? Why are you harassing us? Are you just playing again—is fucking with people's mind really just a fucking _pastime_ to you?”

She was livid and her voice had risen to a shout again. “No—I played this game for too damn long and I am so fucking done with your _shit!”_

Loki looked somewhat appalled. “Agent Romanov,” he said slowly, eyes wide, opening his hands. “I think you are tired—tired and anxious.”

She burst out laughing, a nastier and crazier laugh than when she'd been giving birth. “And what was your first goddamn clue, you genius?”

“It is not my fault if your child is sick,” he hissed.

“Yeah? And how do I even know that? How do I even know what you want with her? The only think I know for sure is that you got into her _dreams_ —and mine—like the fucking _creep_ you are!”

“That was months ago!”

“And that makes it _okay?”_

“I didn't—” he cut himself off, “I could heal her in a heartbeat but you won't let me _touch_ her!” he said, suddenly yelling the last words.

“Like hell I will!” she shouted. “I should never have let you come back in the first place!”

“Guys,” a mild-mannered voice said.

 

They both stopped and snapped at Bruce.

 

He was standing by the corner of the hallway, looking weary and disapproving.

“The fever broke,” he said. “And I'd appreciate if you could stop screaming—you're going to wake her up.”

A low but very real threat was pulsing underneath his words. Natasha took a deep breath, nostrils flaring.

She turned to point at Loki. “You,” she hissed. “Our deal is broken.”

He gaped at her for a second, then protested furiously, “What? On what grounds?”

“On the grounds that I never want to see your goddamn _face_ again. Except on the field where I can _shoot_ at it.” She took a sharp breath and said in a barely calmer voice, still trembling with anger, “On the grounds that I don't believe you're visiting a mortal child for the sake of it. On the grounds that it means you've been using her. I don't even care what for but _that,_ Mr. Godfather, was a deal-breaker. So consider the fucking deal _broken.”_

She looked up at the ceiling. “Jarvis, if he's not gone in two minutes, sedate him.”

_“Duly noted, Agent Romanov.”_

An armored syringe filled with an electric blue liquid came out of the ceiling and aimed at Loki. He took a step back, staring at Natasha.

“You will regret this,” he said under his breath, looking very white.

“Stop talking,” she snarled, “and _fuck off.”_

He retreated again, still awfully pale with shock and anger; then he actually turned away and left.

Bruce huffed a pensive breath.

Natasha had forgotten he was still there and she snapped at him to snarl, _“What?”_

But then she suddenly remembered who she was talking to, and she stilled, breathless. And suddenly she felt empty. And suddenly she felt terrified.

Bruce's lips curled up in a sad smile.

“Nothing,” he said.

He turned away.

“It's just the first time I've ever seen you angry,” he said over his shoulder, and then he left her all alone.

 

*

 

Hela got better.

The days went by, turned into weeks, which turned into months. She was a very bright little girl and her babbling was getting more and more articulate as she walked from one room to another in her clumsy baby gait. Of course, there were occasional tantrums and many pouting silences, but all in all she remained unusually patient and accepting, quite joyful, and she made them all very happy.

Natasha was terrified.

Ever since her impulsive outburst at Loki, she had not slept for more than four hours straight. And that was on a good night. Her eyes closed slowly and before she knew it, she was up in the middle of her room with a gun in her hand, aiming at the closed door, like a repeat of Hela's birth.

But the door stayed closed.

Natasha couldn't understand herself. Throughout the last months, she had kept telling herself that she would make the most of their creepy deal with the mass-murdering godfather. She had kept telling herself she was as calm and emotionless as she had always been. But as it turned out, she had been lying to herself all that time. Her body was not the only thing her pregnancy had gotten her back from the Red Room.

She was not used to this. She was not used to creeping fears and pulses of rage growing under her skin. She was not used to emotions which unveiled themselves only when they burst out of her. She had thought she could deal with Loki, but even Clint, with his history— _especially_ Clint, _because_ of his history—had been way more cool-headed than her. He had accepted the parameters of the mission and shot Loki when he had looked like he was about to cross the line. But Natasha had let her acidic anxiety boil hidden inside her until she panicked and snapped.

 

And there was no way Loki would let it slip.

 

Clint approved of her; even though she “could have been more diplomatic about it,” getting rid of Loki was a very good thing in his opinion. Steve and Tony kind of agreed with him, but in an uncertain, puzzled way.

Bruce just stayed silent. Sometimes Natasha wondered what he was thinking. Sometimes she wanted to take her child and run.

God, her trust was crumbling away as fast as it had appeared. And it was all Loki's fault, of course. How could he sow the seeds of discord among them like this, even though they'd monitored each second of his visits? How could Natasha keep those seeds from blooming into some poisoned tree?

She kept trying to figure out his next move. Loki was dangerous and unpredictable enough on a good day; but now, she had gravely offended him, and he knew her weakest spot. Of course he knew.

That night, she could not sleep, because every time she looked away from Hela, she felt Loki's shadow looming over them both.

She could not sleep, because she could not _know_ what he would choose to do. She could not know what form his revenge would take.

She could not sleep, because it had been months and Loki was not coming back, and she had no idea _why._ Whether he was trying to drive her crazy. To make a point. To prepare something.

 

She could not sleep because Hela would be two years old the next day.

 

*

 

“Make a wish.”

Hela took a deep breath, then blew her candles.

Natasha closed her eyes, and made a wish, too. Or rather a vow.

_No more._

 

*

 

“Uh, guys?”

It was almost another month later that Bruce came into the gym as she was training with Tony. The scientist looked ruffled and owlish, as though he'd ran his fingers through his hair countless times. Natasha's sleep habits had not exactly improved by then, but the rest of it had.

Drastically so.

She had left Hela with Clint; although it was making her nervous, she knew that her daughter was as safe with any of her godfathers as she was by her side. Dealing with dangerous situations was all about calm assessments and logic reasoning. In a situation where she might find herself emotionally compromised, she'd fallen back on what she knew. Hela was the mission target; the mission was to protect; and the protocols were clear. The bodyguard must stay healthy and cool-minded at all times. Thus Natasha fed herself, trained and slept according to strict standards. The strictest of them all, not SHIELD's; but the Red Room's. When she looked in the mirror, she saw the person she had been before pregnancy.

She did not like it.

But when Bruce interrupted their fight, she was thankful for her own efficiency. “What is it?” she asked at once, not even breathless.

“We got a portal in the lab.”

Tony slowly looked up—Natasha had just thrown him on his back on the mat. “Bruce,” he said in a voice trembling with excitement. “Brucie, are you telling me our inter-dimensional gate prototype is _working?”_

Natasha's state of alert was already cooling down until Bruce cut off Tony's enthusiasm. “No.”

“What?” Tony frowned, getting up. “If it's not an inter-dimensional gate, then what the hell do you mean by 'portal'?”

“It _is_ an inter-dimensional gate,” Bruce said. “I just have no idea why it's here.”

This statement was followed by a puzzled silence.

The doors of the elevator opened; Steve came in, frowning. “Has anyone seen my shield?”

This was almost more unusual than Bruce's story. Tony's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “You lost your _shield?”_

“I had it,” Steve said. “I was on the range. I threw it and it just vanished.”

Natasha felt the thin hair on her nape spike up.

“Jarvis, where is Clint?”

 _“He's_ — _”_

“Tell him to bring Hela here right now. Give me footage.”

Jarvis complied wordlessly; Natasha's heart started hammering in her chest when she saw the small silhouette of Hela, who'd been practicing darts with Clint in his room since Steve had the range. Clint looked up, listened to Jarvis, then nodded and took Hela in his arms at once.

He walked towards the door—

—but vanished before he crossed the threshold.

 

 

 

 

Natasha's heart literally _stopped_

 

 

 

 

—and Clint reappeared in the gym, still holding Hela in his arms.

 

They all blinked at each other.

Natasha was the first to react. “Give her to me.”

She jumped out of the ring and strode towards Clint, who gave her Hela without a word.

“Mama?” she said.

“It's alright,” Natasha smiled.

It was her cover smile and she hated herself for it. Then she glanced behind Hela and saw a glint of color—

— _“DUCK!”_ she shouted.

Everyone fell to the ground and Steve's shield rushed across the room to bounce off the opposite wall; Steve jumped on his feet and grabbed it as it flew past.

“Okay,” he said, securing it on his arm. “What the hell is going on?”

 _“Small portals seem to be opening and closing unpredictably throughout the entire Tower,”_ Jarvis informed them. After a brief pause, he added,  _“This actually appears to be a planetary phenomenon.”_

The screens shifted to the international news. Apparently, _something_ was happening in London, but nobody could tell what it was yet. All others countries were furiously social-networking about really weird things happening in their backyard. Tunnels leading from the fridges to the TVs, that kind of thing.

“Tony,” Bruce said. “I don't know what's happening, but I know this is exactly what we've been working on with Foster. We might be able to—”

“—rough out a detection algorithm,” Tony nodded. “Jarv, continuous scan and display of the Tower's status using Doctor Banner's current research.”

There was a pause; then a 3D hologram rose in the middle of the room—only Tony Stark would install this in his _gym_ —to show a perfect blue translucent replica of the Tower. Spots of red light flared all of over it; some stayed longer than others, some flickered erratically.

“Can you tell which portals are connected? Are they all in pairs inside the Tower, or do some of them lead outside?”

 _“I cannot tell as yet,”_ Jarvis. _“Sir—Thor has been sighted in London."_

They all snapped at the ceiling. "What?"

 _"He appears to be—sir! Most of the portals seem alarmingly close to_ — _”_

The end of his sentence was drowned in an awful creaking noise of steel when _the entire Tower_ leaned on its side. Natasha was almost thrown on the now diagonal floor; she caught sight of the hologram and saw a big spot over one of the main foundations pillars. It flickered then disappeared, obviously taking away a huge bite of it.

“We have to get out of here _now,”_ she yelled.

Steve was already on his feet and helping Tony up. Clint broke a window with his booted foot and made his quiver whirr before firing a grappling arrow towards the opposite building.

“Okay,” Natasha murmured to Hela. “Listen to me, baby. You're going to cling real hard to mama. I will be holding you. But you have to cling as hard as you can. Okay?”

“O-kay,” Hela said in a serious tone.

 _“Sir_ — _”_

The building brutally leaned even further on the side like a sinking boat and the floor was swept under Natasha's feet; she rolled down the steep slope of the gym floor, protecting Hela as well as he could, but before she could hit the wall she—

—reappeared on the _roof,_ and _kept rolling,_ closer and closer to the edge, and she let out a strangled breath when she realized she was going to _oh_ _fuck no no NO_ she lashed out and grabbed the very edge of the building, just before she could fall.

Had she fallen on the other side, she could have almost walked the façade down to the ground—the leaning tower of Pisa had nothing on Stark Tower right now—but on this side, she was doomed, hanging over nothing but empty space, clutching at the edge with only one hand, holding Hela pressed tight against her chest with the other. She focused her strength on these hands and willed herself to hold on. Tony was going to come for Hela. Jarvis must be monitoring them both and Tony would come for Hela. She just had to wait. She just had to—

—the Tower leaned even closer to the ground and a grinding noise let her know that the whole building was starting to break in half. Natasha gripped the edge as tight as she could, but her sweaty fingers were starting to slip. Inch by inch. She needed both hands—with both hands, she could pull herself up no matter how awkward the angle. But as it was—but—

_—“Natasha!”_

She glanced up, eyes wide.

Loki was leaning over the edge, black hair billowing in the wind. “Quick,” he panted. “Give me the child!”

“Is this you?” she shouted. “Is this your fault?”

He let out a breathless laugh. “I am very flattered that you may think me guilty for chaos on the cosmic scale—now _give me the child!”_

Natasha slipped another inch down and with a last burst of strength, she pushed Hela up, whispering desperately “Climb, baby, climb, grab my hair,” and Loki leaned down as far as he could; his long fingers wrapped around Hela's wrists and he took her away.

Natasha gritted her teeth and threw herself up; her now free hand slapped on the edge of the building and she pulled herself up with a cry of anger and effort. She threw a leg over the edge and straddled it like it was the crest of a mountain, and stayed there, breathless, shaking violently with shock.

Loki was _standing_ on the crest, above the distant city far down below. Holding Hela for the first time since her birth. Natasha stared at him, sweaty and breathless; he stared back, wide-eyed, looking as bemused and shocked as she was. For a second, it was _exactly_ like the day of childbirth. The both of them united in their effort and fear.

 

But then he got his breath back; he swallowed a last gasp, and he _smirked._

That smirk stabbed Natasha through the heart.

 

They stared at each other, unmovingly, for a still second of balance over devastation and chaos. Loki grinned at her, then took a step forward like a cat on the razor-sharp edge. Natasha started crouching up, breathless and feral. He took another step, Hela still in his arms—

 

—and they both vanished in thin air.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops look at that only one chapter left
> 
> End of the story on Christmas Eve, isn't that beautiful! Holiday spirit and all!


	7. Chapter 7

 

Natasha froze on the spot. Breathless. 

Lifeless.

 

The building creaked and ruptured in the middle, throwing her—she was so dreadfully  _lucky_ —on the steep slope of the north façade; she sprained her ankle as she landed and started rolling down again, collecting shards of glass as she went; the building kept falling and it was going to _burst_ —when it touched the ground it was going to collapse on itself, and she was shredding her skin on concrete and shattered glass, her mind was saturated with adrenalin and she could barely think, but all she thought about was hatred—even as she fell to her death, her last thought would be one of red-hot _hatred_ like the savage _animal_ she was, and she smashed into something which dislocated her left shoulder—

—and it was Tony.

 _“You alright?”_ he said through the mask, stabilizing them in mid-air.

His tower crashed underneath them with a monstrous noise which stunned them both for a second. Natasha clenched at his metal-clad shoulders; she noticed dark blood was gleaming all over the lighter red of his armor and understood it was hers.

 _“Where's Hela?”_ Tony asked in panic.

“He took her,” she gasped. “He took her.”

 _“Romanov,”_ he said in a soothing, concerned tone which didn't suit him, _“listen to me, I need you to focus and tell me_ — _”_

“Stark,” she snarled at him, seizing his helmet. “Keep talking to me like this and I will rip your _heart_ out.”

She allowed herself a deep breath, then said, “I am not in shock. Loki was on the roof. He took Hela.”

It was incredibly selfish of them to discuss this as the whole city fell apart, and she realized this as she took another breath. Somehow, she had a clear line of sight for the first time in almost two years. Now that her worst nightmare had come true, things could stay this way or look up; but they could not get worse. And it allowed her to think again.

“Get me down,” she said. “The city's in ruins, you have to help.”

 _“But_ — _”_

“Think,” she hissed. “I'm injured; it's chaos everywhere; we're not catching Loki without Thor and he's still fighting in London. Get me down. The sooner we deal with this shit, the sooner we can find him.”

The unmoving mask stared at her, then nodded. Natasha distantly realized she should have felt sadness, anxiety or panic; but she felt only anger and blood-thirst. She was not whole after all, and right now, it perfectly suited her needs. Otherwise, she could have collapsed in despair. But in this icy, red state of mind, she knew no hopelessness and no renouncement.

Tony slowly put her down on the ruins of his tower. Natasha grabbed him before he could go.

“I need you to fix my shoulder. It's dislocated.”

 _“I_ — _”_

“It's simple,” she said blandly. "Ask Jarvis to help you. Get the right angle and push.”

Tony hesitated; then his metal hands closed around Natasha's bare arm, waited for a heartbeat and cracked her shoulder back in place. Her features remained completely blank.

“Now hurry,” she said.

He nodded again, without a word, then flew away in a rush of repulsors. She watched him go, squinting when he disappeared into the dazzling sunlight.

Then she turned away.

 

*

 

Stark Tower was not the only building which had collapsed; she had to walk a long time before the streets started to grow clearer, with less debris, less panic and less corpses. As far as she could tell, the epidemics of portals was over; it had been but a fleeting phenomenon. She turned into a street and caught sight of what she needed: a car in the middle of the road with the passenger door open.

The driver was pretty grim. Apparently, a small portal had opened inside his belly and stayed there long enough to do some gruesome damage. Natasha looked at the blood drenching the seat and thought of childbirth.

She threw the corpse out and took its place. The keys were still there; she maneuvered in the middle of the road and drove with steady hands, towards SHIELD HQ.

 

She strode inside the deserted hall and into the elevator which brought her to the roof. There were only three Quinjets left.

One would have been enough.

“Ma'am, I'm going to need your ID and agent status, please,” a young agent hurriedly told her.

She stared at him very calmly.

She was still studded in glass shard and smeared with blood and dust; but it was because of the look in her eyes that the agent took a step back.

“I—”

“Thought so,” she growled.

She climbed inside the cabin and buckled up, then blasted off over the devastated city.

 

*

 

It was a long flight. She was still barefoot and in her training clothes from her fight with Stark; she'd kept her cell phone in her pocket, but it wouldn't turn on anymore. She didn't care; she had no one to talk to, enough fuel and no reason to stop. The shards of glass in her flesh were good; pain kept her hatred bright.

She flew all night through the stratosphere; by the end of it, her body was stone-cold and blood had dried on her skin. But her hands still weren't shaking.

She landed behind the house in the middle of the desert, then walked up the dusty road to the front door. 

She took her time to bust in; Clint had taught her a trick or two, and she didn't want to break the door just now.

Once she was inside, she went straight into the bathroom, shed her clothes and looked for tweezers in the cupboard. Before she sat in the tub, she turned on the radio.

Unsurprisingly, there were lots of casualties all over the world. An Erik Selvig declared that the epidemics of portals were in fact a natural phenomenon they knew nothing about since it only happened every five thousand years.

Natasha sought a smaller splinter under her nail and ripped it out; it clinked in the tub. She attacked the flesh of her left thigh, dug the metallic tweezers into the wounds and plucked out the glass, shard after shard. Some of them were the size of a small knife; some so small she had to rip off bits of flesh with them.

Thor had vanished from London in a mad race with what looked very much like a Dark Elf. Greenwich had almost been crushed by a giant spaceship which had vanished at the last second. 

Most other cities had not been so lucky.

Natasha rubbed her wounds and dug her nails into the flesh to squeeze out eventual hidden shards. She found a couple of them, checked herself again, and decided she was clean. Collecting the bloodied pieces of glass at the bottom of the tub, she threw them in the thrash. She turned on the shower and thoroughly washed herself, then opened the cupboard, dug out a small bottle of disinfectant and clenched her jaw as she drenched her thousand wounds. Her sprained ankle and twisted shoulder ached a little, but she had had worse.

She knew she couldn't sleep, so he went upstairs into the room which wasn't hers and stole a few clothes; then she opened the bag she'd brought from the Quinjet. Sitting on the bed, she plucked out a tablet which she put on her lap, then an assault rifle. As she carefully cleaned it, she studied what little data SHIELD had collected about Asgardians and how to kill them.

She had been right two years ago. She _should_ have aimed for the eye. 

The bag also contained a cartridge of electric blue sedative similar to the one Jarvis had threatened to use against the fifth godfather. Natasha considered it.

Then she charged the rifle with explosive bullets, put it next to her on the bed, and waited.

 

*

 

She stayed alone in the house for two days; she forced herself to go down and eat at least twice a day, then went back upstairs and listened to the radio for hours on end as she exerted herself with training and stretching as to manage to sleep at least one hour per night. 

On the second day, her cell phone miraculously resurrected and buzzed on the nightstand. She had sixty-four missed calls and texts; she opened the last one. 

It was from Clint. 

_Nat, WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?_

No, she wouldn't answer. They had done enough for her. She was entitled to ask for the godfathers' help only when she couldn't keep going anymore.

And she could keep going. 

Hatred kept her going.

She dug through her messages and skipped the godfathers'. There were a few from Pepper and only one from Coulson. She smirked at it; death hadn't deprived Phil of his eerie sharpness.

_Thor's off world again._

That short message meant he must know where to find her, but hadn't disclosed it because he probably agreed with her—the Avengers were better off in New York. Natasha was not the most in need of their help right now.

 

On the third day, she was woken up by voices downstairs.

_“He's gonna come back.”_

_“Except, you know, last time he was gone for, like, two years.”_

Natasha quietly got off the bed and smoothed the comforter; she took the rifle with her and went into another room. She did not mind being found so she did not make much effort in hiding, but it was true that she would rather delay explanations she was in no mood to give. She left the door ajar to hear better.

“It's only been two days,” Jane Foster was saying.

“Did he say anything before he left?” A young girl Natasha didn't know. 

“Yeah, he had to figure some stuff out with his father.”

 _Good to know,_ Natasha thought, glancing absently out the window.

She heard the other girl leave, then Foster went up the stairs and into the bedroom Natasha had lived in for two days; she kept looking at the desert outside and waited. But Jane Foster was no SHIELD agent and thus did not check all the rooms before going to bed. 

Natasha stayed up all night. 

Jane Foster got up around 5 am. Trouble sleeping.

Well, that made two of them. 

They both waited for another day. At some point, Natasha heard something brushing the other side of the door and thought Foster was going to come in; but she didn't and kept walking. On her way to the bathroom. 

Natasha's mind was blank. She kept looking out the window.

 

Eventually, what they were both waiting for happened. 

A cataract of light fell from the skies and crashed into the ground. Natasha heard Jane's chair fall to the floor downstairs.

She got up calmly, then checked her rifle and quietly went out of the room, then down the stairs. She was still barefoot and made no sound as she walked into the kitchen. She could have stomped all the way that the two lovebirds wouldn't have seen her, busy as they were trying to melt into one.

A week ago, she would have been touched.

“Hi, Thor,” she said icily.

They violently startled and parted; Thor instantly stepped in front of Jane. Quite right, too; Natasha wasn't aiming at them yet, but if she had to shoot at something, Jane would certainly be her first choice.

“Long time no see,” she went on, low.

They stared at her for a breathless second. Her bare arms were still covered in bandages and scratches and deep gashes; the side of her face was equally raw and crusted with blood, and her left shoulder was purple and blue after its dislocation. She had lost weight too fast and there were dark rings under her eyes. 

She knew how eerie she looked. She was making the most of it.

“My friend,” Thor said, unsure. “What happened to you?”

“Your brother is what happened to me,” she said, very calm. 

Thor stared at her for another minute. 

“...Natasha,” he said eventually. “The Conjunction was not Loki's deed.”

“You knew he had escaped,” she said. “You knew he was on Earth. Why didn't you come?”

“The Nine Realms were at war,” he protested. 

“And the Dark Elves attacked,” Jane said.

“London—”

“There was this thing called the Ether and—”

Natasha cocked her gun and they fell silent. 

“You know what—I don't actually care,” she said. “This is nothing I need to know right now.”

She stared into Thor's clear blue eyes. “Aren't you going to congratulate me?”

Thor looked more and more puzzled with each second. “For what?”

“I had a child while you were away,” she said.

 

They both gaped at her without a word.

 

“A daughter,” she precised. 

Still nothing.

“Loki delivered her and called her Hela.”

 

Thor brusquely went extremely pale. 

 

Natasha showed her teeth. “Ah,” she said. “I see that rings a bell.”

Although she was still aiming at the floor, her finger twitched on the trigger. “He stole her four days ago and didn't come back. She was—” She took a sharp breath. “She _is_ two years old.”

“My God,” Jane murmured. 

She looked up at Thor and Natasha looked at him, too.

He looked incredibly weary. As though the whole universe had just fallen over his shoulders.

“How?” he asked.

It was Natasha's turn to frown minutely.

“How did he steal her?” he explained.

“We were in Stark Tower when it collapsed. I was about to fall with Hela in my arms; he grabbed her and used a portal to escape."

Thor ran a hand through his blond hair and kept his eyes downcast. The tip of Natasha's gun went up a few notches; she wasn't quite aiming at him yet, but still, it was enough to catch Foster's attention.

“Thor,” Natasha said calmly. “He's your brother. I'm not asking you to kill him. I'm asking you to find him and show me the way.”

“You won't be able to hurt him,” Foster blurted.

Thor glanced up at her with thousand-years-old eyes. Natasha had to keep a feral smirk from stretching her chafed lips.

“Natasha,” he said eventually. “Your hatred is not misplaced and I will let you carry out your revenge. But first, I need you to hear me.”

“Hela's been with him for four days,” Natasha said flatly.

“I heard you,” Thor said painfully. “And I now need you to hear me. Please.”

She stared him with piercing eyes.

“Alright,” she let out.

She lowered her gun then slowly, intently, drew a chair and sat down. Thor sat in front of her and softly pulled Jane Foster's hand so she would sit next to him.

He ran a hand over his face, then finally started telling her story she should have heard from the start.

Natasha listened to him, sitting in the grey, cold light; and she was still listening when the night started to fall.

 

“For how long have you been in my house?” Jane Foster murmured at her when they were done.

“A week,” Natasha answered absently.

“Are you... are you wearing _my_ clothes?”

Without another word to the baffled scientist, Natasha went into the small room she'd stayed in and closed the door behind her. 

 

*

 

Thor came for her at dawn.

“It is like I thought,” he said. “Heimdall warned me a few minutes ago.”

She got up at once and grabbed her assault rifle. Thor eyed it, but he was wise enough not to say anything. 

He was going to wake up Jane, but Natasha grabbed his arm and said sharply, “Don't.”

He stared at her, then gravely nodded and they went down the stairs, then out the front door. She was still barefoot; it was freezing outside, and the sand was grainy and cold under the soles of her feet. 

They walked into the desert until they reached the Bifrost print engraved in the sand. She placed herself on one side of the circle, and Thor on the other.

This time, Natasha could have seen it coming—the light flared bright above her head like another sun; but she kept her eyes fixed on the landing point not to be dazzled. The colors smashed into the ground and made it rumble under their feet. 

She took her aim and locked her back muscles, breathing quiet and regular. She felt as calm as still waters.

 

The colors suddenly vaporized and Loki was here, holding an unconscious Hela in his arms. Their gazes met for a split second.

 _“Vse končeno, krëstnyj otec,”_ Natasha murmured—and she fired.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"It's over, godfather."_
> 
> Except obviously, it's not. Well, last chapter on Christmas then. (I'm so hopeless.) Merry Holidays to you all!


	8. Chapter 8

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The recoil of the gun shot through Natasha's twisted shoulder, but Clint would have been proud—the electric blue vial of sedative missed Hela by a few inches and stuck itself into Loki's neck.

 

The demi-god flinched—but that was all he did.

He did not look surprised or angry. Only unfathomably distant. Then his gaze mellowed even more, and his eyelids fell shut; just before he went completely limp, Thor stepped from behind him to catch him in his arms. Loki let himself be brought to the ground, eyes still ajar. Natasha caught a glint of blue before he closed them for good and passed out.

He was pale as death in the dust, still clutching Hela to his chest. Thor glanced up.

“I called SHIELD,” she said, walking towards them. “They're bringing the Helicarrier.”

“I know,” Thor soberly said.

Natasha slung the rifle over her shoulder; she walked hastily towards the unconscious demi-god, crouched and brushed Hela's hair off her forehead.

“Baby?” she murmured, throat tight.

Her daughter squirmed, then the sleepy eyes blinked and zeroed on her.

Natasha stared back with baited breath.

Then Hela's face lit up and she cried joyfully, “Mama!” as she threw her arms around Natasha's neck.

Natasha wrapped her arms her daughter and squeezed her tight, _tight,_ and she choked on a sob; and suddenly she started crying like she hadn't cried in years, trembling with the violence of her own relief, and she could feel each one of her wounds and she could feel each of the hours of sleep she'd missed, and she fell on her knees in the dust and held her only child and cried so _hard_ it was as though she was making up for many, many, many delayed sorrows.

Thor's hand was heavy and warm on her shoulder. She sniffed, then looked up. A Quinjet was coming down from the heavens like the emissary of some steel god.

It hovered above the ground and slowed down; Clint jumped out and ran to them before it had even fully landed.

Natasha got up on wobbly legs, but Clint was running so fast she could only take a few steps before he reached her and wrapped them both in a rough embrace. She wrapped her free arm around his waist and pressed him closer. A minute later, someone else put a hand on her shoulder, another body pressed close to hers, and it was Steve, and Bruce, and Tony, until they were all gathered around their child.

They all stayed together for a long, precious moment of peace.

Then a small, annoyed voice made itself heard. “Mama? Cwint? Mama!”

They all pulled back with drained laughs and exhausted smiles.

“I'm sorry,” Natasha told them in a wet, breathless voice. “I'm really sorry.”

“Don't be,” Steve said sternly.

They all approved in earnest and she closed her eyes for a second. Clint was still holding her; he was the first to glance towards Loki.

The demi-god was still curled up in the dust around his missing infant.

“How did you know?” Clint asked, turning back to Natasha. “Why did he come back?”

“We're going to explain,” she said. “Let's lock him up first.”

Thor nodded wearily, then scooped up Loki and lifted him in his arms; Loki's head hung back, offering his pale throat. He looked almost frail like this, so very white, and so very limp.

He was carried inside the Quinjet, and they all followed in a silent procession.

 

*

 

“How's New York?” Natasha asked hoarsely as they climbed out of the aircraft to get down in the Helicarrier's control room.

“Recovering,” Tony said. “Only two buildings actually collapsed and they were in the zone Loki first attacked two years ago; most of it still wasn't repaired.”

“Lucky,” she mumbled darkly.

She was rubbing her daughter's back, caressing her head, tracing her features, as though she couldn't believe she was back.

“She looks fine,” Bruce observed in a soft tone. “Have you asked her anything yet ?”

“She's only two years old,” Steve said gently. “I don't think she'll be able to tell us much.”

They all gathered around Natasha who stared into her daughter's eyes. _“Goloubouchka,”_ she said. “My little dove.”

Hela smiled and Natasha wanted to hug her and never let go. She fought back her tears and steadied her voice in a casual, cheerful tone. “So how was it with Loki? Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Yes!” Hela said, beaming.

“Where did you go?”

“Pwetty stars!” she said, raising her tiny arms.

Thor silently came back inside the control room and closed the door behind him.

“Weren't you scared?” Clint asked Hela in a low voice.

“Nuh-uh. Bi' ga.”

“Yes, you're a big girl,” Natasha murmured.

They all looked up at Thor, who winced. “My friends...”

“It's alright,” Natasha said softly. She took a deep breath. “I don't think he hurt her. I don't think he ever meant to.”

Thor's look of desperate gratitude made those words worth saying. He looked like he was about to cry; but he didn't and merely took a deep breath.

“Loki... was a father, once,” he said. “It was a very long time ago. When Natasha told me about how he had named the child, and how he had taken her away, I thought this was merely a step further down his path of insanity. But indeed, I was confident he would not hurt her. And I was almost certain...”

He had to pause. “...almost certain he would bring her back. Because he would come to realize the child was mortal and thus would be taken from him  in less than a hundred years. He would not let himself go through that kind of agony again.”

“That was a risky bet to take,” Clint said dryly.

Natasha realized she'd already had this conversation once and didn't want to go through it all over again. She silently got up from her seat. Bruce looked pretty shaken, but he still blinked at her when she gave him Hela.

“Natasha—are you sure? You... you just got her back...”

“Bwuce,” Hela said, and Bruce's smile made him look like he might start crying as well.

Natasha knew how much she had tormented him—all of them—during this week of silence. They cared about Hela as much as she did. And they cared about her, too.

As much as she cared about them.

“I'm sure,” she said softly. “Hela wants a hug.”

He gave her a tiny smile of thanks; she smiled back, then started walking away.

“Where are you going?” Tony called.

She winced and gestured at the blood encrusting her face. “To find a bathroom. I'll be back in a minute.”

He nodded and sat back down, and no one else tried to keep her from leaving the room.

 

Once she was in the hallway, she started running.

 

*

 

Natasha wasn't really sure why she was taking the guard down and punching her agent ID into the pad at the door, but she knew a huge piece was missing from Thor's story.

As in, exactly _what_ had happened to Loki's late children.

Thing was, the thunderer told stories like fairy tales; in one big piece with no details left to be questioned. But Natasha had never been one for cleanly wrapped narratives with no loose ends. Thor's story had been enough for her to change her mind and replace the explosive bullets with sedative; but Thor's story was also the reason she was now breaking into the Cage room.

 

The Helicarrier processed her code and the door clanked open.

 

Loki was already awake, which didn't surprise her. She almost wondered, for a brief second, whether he hadn't pretended to pass out. She might never know.

He was sitting on the floor, with his back against the glass wall of the cage and his arms wrapped around his chest. He looked small and exposed in the violent light. She hadn't paid attention when he'd crossed the Bifrost, but he was wearing his Midgardian suit, minus the jacket. He looked all the more vulnerable. A part of her told her to stay alert, told her he might be playing her again. But she silenced it.

He glanced up at her and gave her the ghost of a smile. “Hello, God Mother.”

“We don't have much time,” she said.

The black eyes of the multiples cameras were drilling into her bones; yet she said nothing else for an excruciating minute. And neither did he.

“Why did you bring her back?” she asked eventually.

Loki's stare was blank. “I know what it is to lose a child.”

There was a heavy silence.

He hugged himself tighter. “The portals were but a coincidence,” he began. “I had not planned to walk through one with the child; I had to wait a few days to make sure the Conjunction was over before I could go to Heimdall and ask him to...”

His voice trailed off and died out. Natasha kept staring at him. He smiled a little, as if mocking himself for thinking anyone might believe him this time.

“No,” he admitted in a cracked, raw tone. “That's a lie.”

He huffed a weary laugh. “The portals were but a coincidence, that part is true—but I needed not wait that long afterwards.” He made a small, helpless gesture. “I thought I might as well seize my chance and have her to myself a few days before I brought her back.”

Natasha closed her eyes.

“I swear I did not hurt her,” Loki said a bit more lively.

It was the most innocent thing she'd heard him say. Natasha's words sounded all the harsher in return—stern and sharp like the stab of a knife.

“She's not your daughter.”

Loki kept staring at her; somehow, even though his features did not move at all, Natasha distinctly saw something crumble and collapse beneath his haunted façade.

Tears welled up in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks.

“I know,” he murmured.

He laughed again, a bit more ironic, a bit more like himself. “Oh, I've been a fool,” he said. “Such a pathetic fool. Haven't I?"

“Thor told me about your children,” Natasha murmured.

His laugh was even more unpleasant and terribly bitter. _“Did_ he? Well—thank you for being so kind as to call them 'children'.”

She frowned. Yeah, apparently, Thor had served them the bowdlerized version.

 But did she really want to know?

 

She took a sharp breath. “Why?" she asked. "How did everyone else call them?”

“Why, 'wolf,'” he said with an awful grin. “And 'snake'. And 'horse'.” He pressed his back against the glass. “But now they are not called anything anymore.”

Natasha felt herself grow significantly colder. 

He lowered his gaze to his own hands. He kept lacing and unlacing his fingers. “Well," he said eventually, as though he'd considered several ways to begin a sentence and rejected them all. "You know the myths.”

He shrugged. “I was young and foolish, and I knew nothing of the dangers of shape-shifting. In no stories is bestiality ever rewarded, I'm afraid.”

For a second, his features quivered, as though he wanted to try and explain something he had never explained before. “I know this is not...” He paused. “But—when in another body—everything seems...”

But then he stopped and shook his head.

“Alas, I was also a prince. Those beasts I'd spawned were stains on the honor of my house.” He laced his fingers again and clenched his hands together, then simply said, “And as such, they were... wiped out."

"Who?" Natasha breathed, so low she couldn't hear herself.

Maybe he didn't need her question to go on since he did so anyway. “Why, by my most dearest, concerned friends. Such a favor they did me. And I _was_ grateful to them, at the time. Or I thought I should be.”

He smiled wryly before murmuring, “Like I said, I was very young.”

“And Thor _let_ them?” Natasha blurted.

Loki glanced up at her.

“And Thor _helped_ them,” he said softly.

For a second, she did not know how to react. But then, she remembered how he'd looked at her daughter just after her birth. She had no difficulty picturing him still bloodied and shaking from the pain of childbirth, having just retrieved his own body after months of gestation in another form, shocked and shaken and lost—but gazing with disbelieving adoration at a closed-eyed puppy, or a trembling foal.

Somehow, the idea disturbed her a lot less than it probably should.

_My own flesh and blood._

Perhaps she really should have felt disgust. But no matter how hard she tried, she felt only pity and a deep horror which wasn't, for once, aimed at him.

“And the other one?” she asked eventually, forcing the words out of her mouth. “Your fourth child?”

He smiled briefly, and more sincerely than she'd ever seen him smile. “My Hela,” he murmured.

He shrugged. “They were kinder to her, really, as she looked less... _feral,_ should I say, than her brothers. She was merely banished. And Helheim is a dark place even I cannot fathom. Perhaps she still exists there in some form. I often wanted to...”

He kept his lips parted for a second, then said in a very low voice, “But perhaps it is better for me not to know.”

Natasha felt tired and nauseous. She wanted to go back in time and never having walked into this room. She wanted to forget about him and about the dreadful pity continuously swelling in her chest like a cancer.

“You took _my_ Hela there,” she said, trying to revive her hatred.

“I did,” he admitted. “We gazed upon the chasm of Hel together and I asked her what she thought of it.”

He smiled. “She said it was 'vewy pwetty'.”

 

There was a long silence.

 

He sighed, deeply, then leaned back again. “We have both been idiots,” he said like a conclusion. “I shouldn't have gotten so close. And you shouldn't have let me.” He smiled and opened his hands. “But now, _v_ _se končeno_ _,_ is it not?”

The tears hadn't yet dried on his face, but still she could see that his mask was setting back into place. “For what it's worth, I had a good time. Your daughter is very bright. For a mortal child.” He smirked a little. “Are you going to change her name?”

“I wouldn't dream of it,” Natasha said blandly.

 

Loki's smirk gradually vanished.

He frowned a little, looking unsure. Then he glanced at the cameras.

 

The door of the Cage room banged open and she knew it was Thor. She was surprised it had taken them so long to figure out where she was.

“My friend—” he said hurriedly. “You shouldn't have—”

She snapped round and _struck_ him across the face with the butt of the assault rifle.

He let his head jerk on the side and took several steps back.

They stayed there for a long second of mutual shock. Then his shoulders slowly slumped, and she knew Loki had told the truth.

She dropped the rifle on the ground.

“What a pair you are,” she snarled. “Brothers till the very end.”

Thor said nothing; and in the glass cage, Loki said nothing either.

Natasha realized she was trembling.

“Where are you taking him now?” she spat. “Odin's jails? To lock him back up?”

“Yes,” Thor muttered, eyes downcast.

“Good,” she hissed. “Throw away the key this time. And I hope you'll trip and fall into a dungeon of your own!”

She strode out of the room and the steel door slammed shut behind her.

 

Bruce was waiting for her on the other side—along with Clint, Tony, and Steve. And Hela. Little bright-eyed Hela.

Natasha took her in her arms and buried her face into her soft hair.

“Let's go home,” she mumbled.

She felt so terribly weary. She felt like sleeping for years.

“Let's all go home now.”

 

*

 

“So he just... genuinely loved her?” Clint asked, many hours later. “In a really fucked-up sort of way?”

Hela was sleeping peacefully between them; the ocean was murmuring outside the window like the echo of her soft breath. Tony's mansion wasn't such a bad place to stay in. Almost like holidays.

“I don't know if he loved her,” Natasha said slowly. “I know he loved a memory. I think for a split second there...”

She remembered his crazy grin just before he vanished.

“...he thought the pain could stop. But he probably realized he'd been fooling himself the moment he took her away.”

There was a long silence.

“You know, he really fucked me up,” Clint finally admitted, two years after the battle of New York.

She only looked at him. He took a deep breath.

“But seems like he's been fucked-up big time, too, uh?”

Natasha tried to imagine a young Loki teaching himself shape-shifting and getting lost in a foreign body and in instincts he couldn't fight; she tried to imagine him twisting in the agony of childbirth. She couldn't fathom what he'd thought then. And afterwards...

“That's a mild way of putting it,” she said.

“I'm kinda sorry for him,” Clint murmured. “I mean, he's insane and murderous and all, but... seems like the primary reason for all this shit is that he still loved his children too much, even a thousand years later.”

“Well,” Natasha murmured. “You know what they say.”

She brushed Hela's soft cheek and said,

“Love is for children.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She was floating in the middle of an ocean of stars.

 

“Hela?” she called, a little anxious.

 

“Mama!”

 

Hela's black hair was like a starless halo against the night.

She grabbed her mother's wrist and flew with her across space, to a small planet which looked like it had been specially designed for a three-year-old little kid. Gleaming candy was growing on small trees; multicolor insects were bouncing about in the grass, and small will-o'-the-wisps were dancing in the air. Hela grabbed one of them and giggled when it burst into a cold blue flame which tickled her face without hurting her. The sky above them was dark and starry, but the planet was bathed in daylight.

Natasha carefully landed on the grass and looked around. A wolf cub was fighting a snake in the grass, chewing it playfully before letting it go without hurting him; and for a second, Natasha thought she'd heard the breeze carry down a whinnying sound.

“Mama!”

Hela was pulling at her hand. “Pwease?”

She was looking longingly at the pup who'd left the snake alone to stare at her, wagging his tail. Natasha nodded and opened her fingers.

“Yes,” she murmured. “Go play.”

Hela ran away with cries of joy.

Natasha looked up and said, “You can come out.”

 

Loki walked out from behind a tree.

He seemed very hesitant; she'd never seen him look so vulnerable, not even in the glass cage that second time. He was barefoot, wearing soft dark pants and a green, plain tunic, and his black hair was loose on his shoulders. Somehow, he looked really young.

“If this is unwanted...” he began carefully.

“No,” she said, smiling a little. “That's good. You got my memo.”

 _“I wouldn't dream of it,”_ he quoted. “You always were the subtlest of them all.”

“I was beginning to think you wouldn't act on it.”

“I have been kept—ah,” he said, “a little... busy, this past year.”

She looked at him with shrewd eyes.

“Where are you now?” she asked.

He grinned at her for the first time. “How should I know? I am not really here, after all, and this is all just a dream.”

“This is probably what I'll think when I wake up.”

She wouldn't; and they both knew it.

“She's still not your daughter,” Natasha reminded him softly.

He nodded. “I know.”

They both looked at the children playing in the garden.

“Am I still her godfather?” he asked eventually.

“I'm afraid it's a life-time job,” she smirked. “Got yourself stuck with a mortal kid there.”

“Some would argue I got stuck with worse,” Loki answered in a dark tone.

Natasha crouched and offered her arm to the small snake who'd crawled to their feet. He wrapped around it, lacing his tail between her fingers and flicking his tongue at the tender skin of her wrist. She straightened up and looked at Loki.

“No,” she said in her blank, calm tone. “I don't think so.”

He smiled a little and looked away.

The snake vanished in a puff of smoke around Natasha's arm, but the little wolf kept playing tag with her daughter in the fields. They watched them leaping and running around for a long time.

“You knew I'd take you down the second you came back,” she said. “And you still came back.”

"What about my crimes," he countered. "All that red in my ledger. Will you overlook it?"

She kept staring ahead. “Well, you're serving your time, aren't you? Besides,” she smirked a little, “'this is all just a dream.' Right?”

None of them was looking at the other, but they both knew they sported the same little smile.

The whole planet suddenly started to flicker. Natasha frowned at Loki, who shrugged. “One of us must be waking up.”

“Already?”

“Time has no real meaning here,” he said.

But something in his tone made her suspect the disturbance came from his side. She had the grace, and probably the wisdom, not to ask.

“Well then,” she said.

Hela was back in her arms, breathless and pink with excitement. Loki looked up at the night sky. He was growing translucent. Suddenly, he glanced back at her, and smiled.

“Farewell, God Mother.”

“Till next time, God Father.”

 

And the stars took the three of them away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas.
> 
> Still don't know where the fuck that plot bunny came from, but eh. Thank you so much for reading and please, please, tell me what you thought of the end? :)


End file.
